


Osprey

by bookofsecrets



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Aggressive Hawke, Angst and Humor, F/M, M/M, Mage!Hawke - Freeform, Promiscuous Carver, Secretly a Virgin, Templar Carver Hawke, divergent canon, frenemies to lovers, porn pretending to be plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookofsecrets/pseuds/bookofsecrets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lurid chronicle of sex, love, and brotherly hatred by Carver Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deep Throat Expedition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver tries to resist Isabela's seduction, but it's harder than he thought. Pun intended.

I wake to something moving furtively inside the tent. I can't see through the inky darkness, but the feeling lurks oppressively. I blink several times to convince myself I'm awake. I hear water dripping from stalactites outside the tent. The constant drizzling fills the entire cavern where our underground expedition has pitched camp.

"What do you want?" I demand in a harsh whisper, annoyed to be awake.

I spent what felt like hours trying to get to sleep. Anders didn't offer any warning on how disgustingly humid the Deep Roads would get. Inside my small tent, it's even worse. My hair is plastered to my head and neck, my body slick with sweat.

I hold my breath, waiting. The dripping seems louder, rhythmically tapping on the outside of the tent. Without cover, I would probably wake with pneumonia. Or drown, and never wake up. I'm lucky like that.

I glare reproachfully at the darkness when there's no reply, but my certainty slips. The groggy part of my brain says I'm imagining another presence. Despite the ache of agreement in my tired muscles, my eyes remain wide open. I reach in front of me, half-afraid my fingers will find something in the dark. I'm a grown man; the thought makes me feel ridiculous.

Yet I hardly need to remind myself that my ass of an older brother would delight in sneaking into my tent while I sleep, steal my clothes and then laugh with the expedition team as I hunt for my trousers, naked.

I promise myself that if my clothes are still next to me where I'd stripped them off and thrown them, then I'll go back to sleep. I move my other hand across the ground and instantly touch the shirt and trousers where I remembered them being, boots too. See, this is what happens when combining years of sibling torment with the Deep Roads. _You're paranoid, Carver._ I pull my hands to my sides, despising how stupid Garrett has made me feel, again, without even having tried. Fuck's sake, I'm starting to do his tormenting for him.

"Fuck off," I mutter at the thought.

A hand clamps over my mouth. "You're only half right," a low voice whispers.

Startled, I jerk my body forward, trying to sit up, but a solid weight sets down on my stomach. The hand wrapped over my mouth pushes down, trying to force me to lay back. I'm half-aware of bare flesh pressed against my own; their thighs grip like a vice. I knock the hand from my mouth and make to shove in front of me, to knock my attacker off. When my hands touch their chest I stop, petrified the moment I realize I'm gripping onto a pair of breasts that's spilling from the unlaced front of what feels like a tunic. 

"Isabela?" I say hoarsely, a sudden lump in my throat. I think it's my heart, trying to crawl out of my mouth. She's the only woman who joined in the Tethras & Hawke venture.

Still astride me, her hips undulate in response to her name.

My shock and confusion sharpen into a stab of panic and without thinking clamp my hands down on her thighs, stopping her from rubbing against me. "Wait--" I hold her still. I'm fully aware of how naked I am, of my manhood drooped between my legs, and I feel more vulnerable than I ever remember being before.  _Pretend you're wearing pants. Think pant t_ _houghts._

"You missed," she says teasing. "My ass is back here." Her skin has a sheen of sweat that my touch practically slips across when she drags my hands up her thighs. She presses my palms against the robust curve of her ass. I gasp softly. She isn't wearing anything under her tunic. _  
_

Pants are now the furthest thing from my mind.

"Are you drunk?" I ask, trying to ignore faint throbbing between my legs, where I feel less drooping.

Isabela giggles. She bends over me, the end of her long hair tickling along my chest. I still can't see her, even when her cheek touches mine. I flinch, glad she can't see how intimidated I am by her. Her mouth touches my ear. "Whenever I'm not sober," she whispers. Her voice is so low, sultry. It's mesmerizing. Her lips close around my earlobe. She sucks it, hard.

 _This can't be real_ , I try to reason. She pinches my ear between her teeth and my thoughts shatter when she flicks the tip of her tongue against my earlobe. Her free hands slide across my chest, patiently feeling the sculpted muscle. Maker forbid she can also feel my heart pounding.

Somehow I gather enough lucidity to peel my hands from her ass, praying to the Maker -- if He takes these sorts of prayers -- that she doesn't take offense when I put my hands on her shoulders and carefully push her back until her weight sits on my stomach again. I try not to think about her wet heat burning my skin, or the texture of the hair between her thighs.

"I'm not Garrett," I say slowly, finally figuring out what's going on. "You're in the wrong tent."

I sound bitter because I am. Yes, I'm envious of my brother -- I can admit that to myself. We're leagues under the ground evading darkspawn and almost-certain disaster, yet Garrett Hawke still manages to shag the most nubile woman I've ever met.

I stop brooding when she doesn't reply. I try to think of something to say to break the awkward silence. "It's not as big deal," I assure her. "I won't tell him, but you should probably--"

I'm cut off when she grabs my hair and yanks my head up. Our mouths collide. As I try to make sense of what's happening, she thrusts her tongue past my lips. I try to protest, insistent she's got the wrong Hawke, but my attempt is crushed by the feverish way she kisses and only a groan escapes. She moans into my mouth in response. I've never been kissed like this before. It's passionate, more than I know how to handle. Her fingers stay bound up in my hair, pulling me closer. I'm forced into struggling to sit up, and when I do she presses her ample breasts against my chest. Maker, I can feel her hardened nipples. The length of my cock surges with a sudden, powerful ache that scares me more than it thrills me.

I turn my face away from her, gasping from that torrid kiss. "No. Isabela, no. I... I can't."

Garrett will murder me and feed me to his mabari. And probably not in that order. But I can't tell her I'm scared of what my brother might do to me if I'm caught tumbling with his girlfriend. 

"You'll be pleasantly surprised how untrue that is," she assures me in a throaty voice.

I'm not sure if she understands what I'm telling her or if she just doesn't care. I'm still not completely convinced she meant to come into my tent. I mean, why? She's been obvious about fucking my brother. And why now, when I'm trapped in the middle of the fucking Deep Roads with them?

Her fingers let go of my hair when I don't say anything. She leans in and kisses my throat before putting her lips against my ear. "Carver?" She rocks her hips forward, stroking her womanhood against the planes of my stomach. The soft folds between her legs part and kiss my skin with a liquid heat. "For fuck's sake, Carver," she groans, "touch me." 

Against self-preservation, my cock fully hardens. 

"No."

She makes a sound I've never heard before. It's a groan of frustration, but a heavy sigh too. I'd think she was getting angry if there wasn't such a hungry edge to her breathing. She's practically panting. My cock twitches in response, betraying me. Isabela reaches behind her ass and wraps her hand around it. I gasp from the sudden touch. Her hand strokes downward, low enough that she curls her fingers under my hanging sac. I grit my teeth together so I won't make a second sound. She gather my balls into her palm, squeezing them gently while making small sounds that seem like approval. I don't trust myself to open my mouth, so I shove my hips up to topple her off me.

This has already gone too far. I have to get her out of my tent. It doesn't matter that it's dark; someone could hear, Bartrand could wake the camp any time he chooses, and ten more good reasons I can't think of right now.

Isabela seems to mistake the motion for enthusiasm and her thighs grip me hard, defeating my attempt. I lower my ass back to the ground. "How could I possibly mistake you for Hawke?" She purrs, releasing my sac and trailing her fingers up the length of my shaft before wrapping it with her hand again. My cock is so hard it stands straight up, unwavering. Her other hand joins behind her back and she wraps it around my shaft too, moaning as she discovers there's length still to spare.

In spite of myself, her comment interests me. "You mean... he's..."

Could I be better endowed than my infamous, womanizing brother? Am I bigger? Longer? Thicker? I find myself wanting to ask, needing to know that I'm better than Garrett at something. I worked my ass off to get into shape while in the Fereldan army, chiseling the muscle I packed on until I could pass as one of those naked Tevinter statues guarding the gates of Ostagar. I was going to steal back the farm girl he'd seduced out from under me just by taking off my shirt. But that didn't pan out.

"He's not you," she answers. Her grip tightens, yet her touch glides as she strokes me from tip to base. Her two hands move independently, one sliding as far down to toy with my sac while her other hand pulls back the sheath of skin from the swollen head of my cock, straining me until precum beads on the tip.

I rake my fingers through my hair, pulling at the roots, trying to bring myself under control as her leisurely pumping makes me want to cry out. Isabela seems oblivious to my desperate movements. This is far more about her than about me; she's enjoying herself, learning more than the shape and size of me, but what makes me gasp and squirm too.

I'm embarrassed by how little that takes.

"No. . ." I moan quietly. I'm not sure if I'm asking her to stop or if I'm just pleading not to come yet, not to explode right now in her hand after a few expert strokes. My core is tightening with a familiar tension, my balls drawing up. My hands find her hips in the dark. Her skin feels like silk beneath my palms, toughened by years of swordplay. But her body isn't what's on my mind when I lift my upper body from the ground and sit up again. I reach around her waist. My fingers slip over the backs of her hands, stilling her movements.

"You're beautiful," I tell her, reaching out with my mouth, brushing my lips across hers, before pressing in with a kiss. She parts her lips with slow uncertainty until I begin to explore her tongue with mine. Then she lifts her hips, raises herself so that her mouth angels down on mine, and we taste each other like that. I focus on her soft, warm mouth, how the sensation tightens my chest rather than my cock -- which begins to subside in her hand. It's a relief to me to pull back from the brink and recover my sanity, but when Isabela realizes what I'm doing she leans away from me.

I try to explain. "I'm not--" _ready for this._

Maker save me, am I about to say that? Like some blushing maid?

But it's true, I realize. Whatever I think about Garrett aside. . . deep down. . . this is how I feel. And this isn't just any woman. This is Isabela.

. . . and I'm in love with her. _  
_

 "I'm not doing this with you right now," I finish, too cowardly and embarrassed to tell her why. I know love isn't Isabela's style.

I'm shocked when Isabela climbs off me, although a sense of relief pools in my stomach. Her weight withdraws and I feel her against my legs as she slinks back. I don't move, thinking she'll leave the way she came. But I don't hear the tent flap open or hear footsteps.

Instead, I feel her soft lips wrap around my half-hard cock and the wet heat of her tongue's caress. I reach for her and my hand brushes her thick, heavy hair shifting beneath my touch as her head bobs vigorously on my erection. I inhale sharply as she somehow swallows me to the base. The pull of her mouth, the squeeze of her throat; I surge back to full arousal. There's no playfulness or slow tease in the way she sucks me into her mouth.

I hear harsh, ragged panting and am late realizing it's my own breathing. My fingers dig into her hair, squeezing reflexively when she draws her lips back to the swollen head of the member, just long enough to dart her tongue against the pearling tip. She gets a taste of the seed she's coaxed from me and gives a little moan that I can feel more than hear. Her hands stroke the inside of my thighs, exploring. She daringly brushes her thumb against the tight ring nestled between the cheeks of my ass, and I shudder at the unexpected sensation. I swear I feel her smile, even as she milks me with her throat.

I try to make words, try to warn her, but she's wound me so tight I can only gasp, helpless, as the tension in my core breaks. My balls draw up sharply as a flood of pleasure pounds through my rock-hard cock. Unwillingly my hand tightens to a fist in her hair when I fail to keep control and thrust into her mouth. My seed surges down her throat. I'm shaking when I finally manage to unlock my fingers and pull free of her hair. Isabela slowly sits back to straddle my knees, allowing my ebbing erection to slip from between her lips. The lewd sound it makes when plopping free of her mouth makes my face burn.

So much for conviction. 

"Wake up you blighters! What am I paying you for!" Bartrand Tethras growls, followed by more shouting and the sound of a bucket over-turning. Freshwater collected while everyone slept, judging by the storm of curses Bartrand unleashes. "Who let the campfire burn out! I can't see a damn thing!"

My heart jumps into my mouth, probably with the good intention to smother me before Garrett has the chance. when next I realize that Isabela has already fled, I flop onto my back, feeling drained and stupefied.

_I am going to be so screwed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon Divergence: Since Varric is an in-game locked party member for the Deep Roads expedition, I decided to regard him as an NPC and allow Hawke to choose one extra person. Garrett chose Isabela, Anders, and Carver as his team.


	2. Primeval Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver tries to ignore what happened until Garrett makes that impossible.

_You're paranoid,_ I repeat to myself.

  I yank on my trousers and knot them so they won't slide off my hips, then grab my shirt and duck out of the tent. Bartrand's hirelings are bundling up the gear after getting a couple of campfires going. The flames hiss and smoke from the water that doesn't stop dripping from the cavern roof. I earn grunts and glances from the hirelings as I walk through camp. I don't stop to make small talk; I need to be well and truly alone so I can think. There's no way they might suspect something, but I feel scrutinized by their glances anyway.

_Nobody knows. You're paranoid, Carver._

  I just need time to make sense of what happened: I woke up to Isabela in my tent, she thinks no means yes, I came in her mouth, she disappears like a thief in the night.

  This is not a simple problem. Not for me. It might not bother me as much as it does if 1) she isn't already sleeping with my brother; 2) my brother isn't a psychopath; 3) I'm not stupidly in love with her, which exacerbates points 1 and 2.

  "Morning, Junior. Aren't you a ray of sunshine."

  "Varric." I stiffen, caught between my tent and Garrett's.

  The dwarf swaggers up to my side as bare-chested as I am; ironic, given the dwarf is wearing the equivalent of a shag rug over his body. He glances at my bare feet, the shirt I'm carrying, and the direction I'm headed. He has me figured out in two seconds. "You taking a last dip in the hot spring? I'll join you."

  I almost don't hear him as I find myself distracted by his chest hair. The sweat clinging to those golden curls glitter like jewels --  _ugh, it's unholy_.

  "If you can restrain your envy." Varric grins, puffing his chest.

  I make a disgusted noise. "I'd rather be alone."

  "Sure. Have it your way, kid, when you can." He calls me kid to get under my skin but this time I don't care. "Just try not to pull a Sandal and get lost, okay?" He turns around and walks back to the hirelings. "Anyone seen Blondie? I'll give three sovereigns to wash that dirty feather coat of his..."

  I rush past Garrett's tent. Isabela is probably inside with him, although I don't hear a sound.  _I guess I should be happy_ , I think as I enter a passageway. I got to experience something I never thought I would with the woman of my fantasies, even if I acted like a tool the entire time. It's starting to seem like I might actually get away with it.

  Wait. Like _I'll_  get away with it? I make a face at the injustice of the thought. How unfair is this fucking mess, really? Isabela practically attacked me, but I'll be the one to get the blame, so I'm the only one who has to worry about getting caught. Okay, fine. I will keep my head down, my mouth shut and stay clear of trouble until I'm back in Kirkwall. With my share of the treasure, I could sail back to Ferelden or go anywhere I want, away from my family's problems.

  I follow the faint blue luminescence shed by deep mushrooms growing inside damp cracks in the rock. I keep one hand touching a wall, feeling for the next turn. Varric wasn't being an entire ass earlier; it  _is_ easy to get lost. But a couple turns down the path, I'm pleased to find the hot spring. Deep mushrooms crowd around the pool's edge, making the water shimmer green-blue. Patterns of light swirl across the stone walls and ceiling.  I hate the Deep Roads but this... this is okay.

  Eager to scrub off days of dirt and grime and the stink of sweat, I move to pull off my trousers. I stop when footsteps enter the passage behind me.

  Shit, is it Isabela? I can't think of a worse time for her to ambush me again. 

_You're being para--NO, SHUT UP._

  Voices accompany the footsteps, bouncing off the stone. "Garrett," I whisper. It's Garrett, I'm certain, and the pillow-biter Anders.

_Oh, fuck, he's coming to kill me. Oh fuck._

  He'll bash my head in with a rock and then have his demon-mage animate my corpse and make it dance for their amusement. Children will delight in tossing coppers at the gaping hole in my skull.

  I look for another way out of the cave. There are several dark corners to choose from but no time to check if they actually lead out.

  "... can't have your way all the time..." Anders' voice drifts in.

  I dive for the nearest cover ten feet away, just as they enter the cave with Garrett laughing. "That's never applied to me," he says.

  I press myself into the rock as far as I can go, ignoring its rough bite against my bare back. I try to keep my breathing slow and shallow so they won't hear me.

  "Oh?" Anders smiles. "Perhaps that'll change." He removes his clothes while Garrett does the same. Naked, he turns to Garrett. "This could be the moment you don't get what you want."

  I frown. Anders is giving my brother the weirdest look, and his voice has a thick, throaty quality I'd never heard him use before.

  Garrett turns away from the pool and roughly grabs Anders by the arms. My eyes widen in shock when Garrett forces Anders against the wall near me, slamming him hard enough that the breath bursts from him. Startled, I almost give in to the impulse to jump away from them. Garrett pushes his thumb across Anders' lips, forcing open his mouth, then leans in to kiss him hungrily.

_What the actual fuck._

  I manage to suppress the need to scream while I watch my own brother make out with another man. No, worse; he's making out with  _Anders_.

  It doesn't seem to be their first time, judging by how the mage responds by practically trying to swallow Garrett's tongue. Garrett's hands slide down Anders' arms and grabs his hands, raising them to each side of the blonde's head and pinning them there. The mage moans pitifully and arches his hips forward, brushing their upraised cocks together. I shut my eyes against this new psychological torture. 

 _I'll never let that priss get his healers hands on me ever again_.

"Hawke," Anders pants, his breathing quick and sharp. I can't close my ears to the wet, sucking noises that twine with Anders' gasping, and the mental image of my strapping brother on his knees and pleasuring the taller leaner man. "Hawke," Anders begs, mewling obscenely, "please... no... not yet... Maker, fuck me first."

 A loud, wet  _plop_ frees Garrett's mouth. "I didn't think you were religious," he teases.

  "Bad habit," Anders replies, his breathing coming under control.

  I listen to movement, then splashing water, and more of their kissing. My face is burning up, and it's not the steam rising off the spring. I keep my eyes closed tight yet I can't stop myself from seeing them behind my eyelids. When I hear water slosh with rhythmic force, the slap of wet skin punctuating Garrett's harsh grunts, I mentally brace myself and listen to their groans tighten into pitched cries as they come. As their pleasure fades from their heavy breathing, I slowly open one eye to see what's going on.

  "Praise the Maker the day He made you," Anders jokes lightly, floating on his back in the water. His cheeks are bright pink, his hair slicked back behind his ears.

  Garrett stands up, water running down his legs. Fortunately, his back is to me. Although right now may be the only chance I have to get a comparison of his endowment. But when he steps out of the pool and stands dangerously near my hiding place, I decide to count my blessing instead.

  Garrett brushes his damp hands over his full, black beard, then reaches for his pants. "Is this yours?" He holds up a large used-to-be-white shirt picked from the ground and my heart pounds when I recognize it.

  "Grey Wardens don't do white. Think of all the laundry bills to get the blood out. It's Carver's." 

  Garrett's expression curdles like he's been told he's touching a leper's soiled underclothes. He throws the shirt away from him. I don't get to see where it lands.

_Thanks, ass._

  "I didn't see him in camp," Anders comments softly, glancing around. Garrett barely shrugs as he fastens his pants around his hips. "You don't worry about him?" Anders asks. "What if he wandered off?"

  Garrett rubs his tunic together with his hands, trying to remove an old bloodstain. He doesn't respond. "You were quick to save Bodahn's boy," Anders persists.

  "We need Bodahn," Garrett points out.

  "Be nice," Anders says with a laugh.

  Garrett's thick eyebrows crease together in annoyance. "That  _was_ nice. I'm going back. Wait before following me."

  The warden flinches but doesn't say anything when Garrett leaves. After the echo of footsteps fade from hearing, he sighs and pulls himself out of the water. My muscles are hard and aching from holding myself against the wall all this time, but I clench my teeth against the discomfort and watch Anders dress himself slowly, then leave. I force myself to wait a few minutes after his footsteps are gone, then step toward the pool.

  I reach down and splash water against my face, trying to clear my head, and watch the pool's surface as my reflection slowly pieces itself together. Strong jaw, blue eyes, black hair. Nothing wrong with me on the outside. Inside I'm a mess.

  I came here to forget my problems but only found more: Garrett is fooling around with Anders when everyone knows he's with the Rivaini. Was that why she came into my tent? For revenge sex, to get back at my brother? Maybe they broke up, but she could have just told me that if she wanted to persuade me. But if that were true then why are Garrett and Anders sneaking around?

  Our father taught us better than this. Hawkes should be better than this.

  _I have to tell Isabela._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characteristically Canon: In case you wonder, Garrett's personality is Aggressive!Hawke


	3. Tainted Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver tries to get answers from Isabela but she only speaks body language.

  After catching my brother hammering Anders like a bent nail -- ugh, mental image -- I endure three sleepless nights debating on how to better convey that to Isabela (she'd probably enjoy the mental image, though). I half-expect her to revisit me again, and it's desire as much as apprehension which keeps me awake. But Isabela keeps a distance between us. Is it only painfully noticeable to me because I can't stop thinking about her, or is she actually avoiding me? I honestly can't tell. Still, it's the opportunity to forget what I saw with Garrett and what I did with Isabela. That could even be what Isabela is trying to do.

  But I just can't pretend everything is fine. Damn my integrity! Plus it's plain infuriating to watch Isabela and Garrett together; touching, joking, sharing a bedroll. If I'm going down, I'm definitely taking him with me. Garrett never deserved a woman like Isabela. Fucking Anders of all people proves that to me beyond any doubt. I feel unclean every time I remember them in the spring pool. Ugh.

  I'm left alone with my niggling thoughts until our expedition reaches the lost thaig.

  Garrett is arguing heatedly with Bartrand when we arrive at the old thaig. They fight about how to split the loot we haven't even found yet. Again. This time Garrett adds a touch of intimidation to his routine by allowing the air around him to crack and sizzle with flashes of electricity. I recognize the technique. Garrett developed it while in the Red Iron company; he'd act irate while doing some flashy magic, so that onlookers would fear he could lose control of his magic if his demands weren't met. But Bartrand is unimpressed.

  I hang back by Bodahn's cart while Garrett and Bartrand continue to sling insults at each other like cranky, entitled children, and wait for Varric and Anders to come running to the sounds of the fracas. The hirelings don't pay attention to me while they wearily pick gear off the back of the wagon to assemble camp. As predicted, Varric does appear, and casually strolls toward Garrett and Bartrand with his lips spreading into a confident smile.

  I share his smile as I bend down to pick a pebble off the ground and walk slowly toward the ruins nearest to the camp site. Isabela is watching the tiff alongside Bodahn with her back to me. As I pass behind her, I aim and hurl the pebble. It bounces off her backside, causing her to glance over her shoulder at me. I meaningfully raise my eyebrows and tilt my head toward the ruins suggestively, then keep moving.

  My boots provide a faint echo on the cracked tile floor as I enter the crumbling vestibule. Most of the columns are only stumps of rock now, the ceiling virtually nonexistent. When I reach the far end of the vestibule where an arched doorway twice my height leads into a dark, second massive hall. I stop at the threshold, feeling satisfied no one would easily spot us. I turn and am confronted with Isabela, who already stands in front of me. I hadn't even heard her footsteps.

  Without meaning to, I rake her body with my gaze. Her tunic strains to contain her voluptuous curves; its white fabric appears to glow in the dim, lyrium-suffused light. The magical stuff is everywhere, like overgrown tree roots. My eyes linger on the lacing cinching the front of her tunic together.

  "I haven't stopped thinking about it," she says, looking at me hungrily. I inhale and fix my gaze on her face, embarrassed to have been oggling her like that. She steps closer and suddenly I'm pressed against the archway, trying to maintain a semblance of distance. Isabela smiles and that gold piercing beneath her full mouth catches a glint of light. Did I really kiss that mouth? I wonder at its shape, its fullness, my own mouth a little dry as I remember how kissing her had made me feel. It reached inside me, brought a part of me to life. Had she felt that connection too or is she only a really, really good kisser?

  She lifts her hands to my chest, using her fingertips to explore the hard muscle beneath my shirt. Her touch winds down my torso until settling on the top of my leather belt. Her amber eyes look black as she leans in, inclining her mouth toward mine. In weakness, I only close my eyes as our lips meet. She opens her mouth to me, inviting me in, and I can't resist. Our tongues brush together and a warmth spreads through my body. She frames my jaw with one of her hands, stroking her thumb against the grain of my stubble. I seize her waist before I even think it, holding her close. I wind my other hand into her thick hair, and she responds with the sweetest moan into my mouth.

  "Isabela," I murmur longingly, breathing in her scent.

  She catches my lower lip with her mouth and teasingly releases it between her teeth and the warmth floods to my groin. She lifts one leg, and when her knee brushes my waist I absently catch the back of her thigh. She begins rubbing against me immediately, caressing the shape of my erection trapped beneath my pants.

  I shouldn't be doing this. Until I hear otherwise, Isabela is my brother's woman. What I'm doing right now isn't any different from what Garrett is doing with Anders. My rumination is overshadowed by the pleasurable sensation pulsing through me as I harden against her ministrations. "Wait." I force the word out, breaking away from her impassioned kiss. I need a second to think clearly.

_Okay, I need more than a second; and maybe an ice bath._

  Isabela groans impatiently, defiantly pursuing my mouth, and I pull back to prevent myself from being tempted. "I'm bored of waiting," she complains.

  That sobers me and I frown. "I didn't bring you here to cure your boredom, Isabela," I say it as evenly as I can.

  "So that explains your raging hard-on."

  I inhale a steadying breath. "I have no control over that. I'm sorry I kissed you." I certainly didn't intend to start out this way. But it is my own fault for allowing myself to kiss her without knowing how I would stop it from going further. I scrub a hand over my mouth and jaw, trying to conceal how flustered I must look.

  She pushes her hands against my chest and takes a step back. "Maker's balls," she mutters irritably. "How do you make me feel guilty?"

  She looks at me sidelong and I glower back. I didn't sneak into _her_ tent and _she's_ not the one suffering a moral crisis because of it. "Is that why you've been avoiding me?" The words tumble out of me before I realize how juvenile I sound.

  "You think it's possible to avoid someone you're stuck hundreds of feet underground with?" Isabela smiles wryly.

  Shifting uncomfortably, I awkwardly cross my arms. "We haven't even talked since... then."

  "Oh, sweet thing." She feigns a pout. "I've seen you try to bluff at Wicked Grace. Trust me, it's better that we don't."

  My ears grow hot at the insinuation. "I'm not naive, Isabela."

  She stares at me. "You are."

  The certainty is her voice hits me with force and I only blink at her. When I don't respond, she mimics me by crossing her arms. Her cleavage swells almost to the point of spilling out of the tunic's plunging neckline. "What did you expect would happen if you lured me here?"

  I can only stare at her, my wits fled. This is the Isabela that's repelled and attracted me since the moment I first saw her at the Hanged Man. Worldly, self-confident, brazen. Without seeming to mean to, she's a constant reminder of how little I know about women. I always fall short around her; fumbling and shy like an adolescent. I almost can't blame her for gravitating to Garrett. He's everything I'm not.

  "I needed to... to talk to you," I finally manage to mumble.

  This is awkward as hell. I should have just left her an anonymous note.

  Isabela skeptically arches an eyebrow. "Is it dirty?"

  "Um..." I wonder if telling her that her boyfriend is a flaming, bone-smuggling ass bandit qualifies. "No?"

  "Not interested, then." She turns her back and starts back across the vestibule.

  "Can you please be serious?" I reach for her arm to stop her from leaving.

  The next thing I know, she has my hand behind my back. I feel her foot strike the back of my knee and my leg caves in. She's on top of me an instant later, but I barely register that I've fallen to my stomach before she's triumphantly straddling my lower back. I feel her dangling hair brushing my shoulder as she speak into my ear.

  "Can you _not_ for once?" She twists my trapped arm, sending spikes of pain shooting through me. It actually hurts. Like... fucking ow.

  "No!" I exclaimed, aggravated with her flippancy, not to mention from the pain. "I'm not like _you_."

  I can't fuck and forget. At least, I don't think I could. I haven't fucked anyone yet, but I like to think I know myself at least that well. When I look at Isabela, when I think about her, even when I'm jerking myself off to thoughts of her devious lips and her perfect tits, my heart is earnest. Yeah, maybe I could stand to be a little less uptight, but have you gone outside lately? The world is fucking nuts and it's falling apart. I just want some meaning in my life. I want to matter, even to just one person.

  "You mean gorgeous, witty, and utterly fuckable? Presumably fuckable. When it comes to you, it's the flip of a coin. A rigged one, if I know my coins."

  "Sorry." I sigh, resigned to being wrong. My breath blows dust across the tile.

  She shifts her weight but keeps me pinned. "Don't be. I could stick my thumb in your ass."

  I can't help but laugh and she releases my arm. Interpreting that as a sign of truce, I slowly roll onto my hip and turn onto my back. Isabela ends up sitting on my stomach. It's painfully familiar, but I'm determined to see things end differently. "I'd deserve it," I say by way of apology.

 "You haven't earned the privilege," Isabela smirks.

  I try to smile back but it's lopsided as I consider what to say. "I've been... confused," I admit. "But not about how I feel about you." I rest my hands on her bare legs, resisting the urge to rake my fingers up her thighs. "I want you. I've never wanted anyone more."

  Her nostrils flare slightly as she stares down into my eyes. "But?" she prompts.

  I hesitate. "We both have unfinished business."

  She snorts. "Tell that to my vagina."

  I grunt softly at the joke and Isabela reaches down to brush back hair laying haphazardly across my forehead. "Speaking of unfinished business," she says in a light tone. "I have a proposition." She smiles deviously. "Look, at the end of the day I got your rocks off and got nothing in return. You owe me."

  My mouth hangs open. I try to get it working but an unmanly noise comes out instead. Isabela grabs me by the ears, leans down, and presses a kiss to my mouth. That jars back my senses. "But we... aren't you and... and him...?"

  She sits back, raising her eyebrows curiously. "Who and me and what?"

  "Garrett," I say, and her lips pucker like an unrepentant child caught misbehaving. "My brother?"

  "Oh," she says.

  I stare. "You're still together, aren't you?" I can only endure several seconds of silence as she stubbornly trains her eyes on my chin. "When did you last sleep with him?" I persist. "When you left me, did you go to him? Did you fuck him?"

  "I don't kiss and tell."

  "Answer," I demand, and her muscles beneath my fingers tense. I think I sound tough, confident, controlled. I expect an immediate answer. But Isabela giggles. _Giggles_ , like I'm some harmless pup snarling at her feet.

  "Then you'll agree to my terms," she coos. "You'll get to ask me one question, which I'll truthfully answer -- _if_ \-- you use that luscious mouth of yours to make me come. And don't skimp on the manhandling."

  I bolt to sit upright. "Now?" I ask in disbelief, fear rather than desire causing my heart to hammer against my ribs. "But what if--"

  She cups my chin in her hand and I forget to finish. She stares into my eyes, her own dark with arousal. "You should get started."

  I scoop my arms under her ass and shoot to my feet. I sway for one unsteadily moment as her weight adjusts in my arms. Then I shift my hands beneath her and lift her, high enough that she can slip her legs over my shoulders. Her ankles cross against my back. A breathless sound catches in her throat as I effortlessly carry her to the archway. Her thighs squeeze me, my face caught between them, and her aroma and heat envelope me. I keep a firm, reassuring grip on her hips as she slowly leans her back against the smooth stone. I bury my face against her, inhaling her. She slips her finger between us, pulling aside the thin, damp layer of undergarment concealing her vulva, and I accept the invitation to press my lips to her sex.

  She gasps sharply at the sensation, combing her fingers into my hair. The response gives me confidence to open my mouth and explore with my tongue. My senses are overwhelmed by her. Her taste is unlike what I could imagine. It's what a woman should taste like, I quickly decide. Relaxing my tongue, I slowly stroke the slit of her sex. The rational, reasoned part of me whispers at the back of my mind, fearful of being discovered. But when I part the soft folds at the apex of her sex with my tongue and, discovering the bud there and causing Isabela to cry out with a shudder, I altogether cease to care.

  My face is flush and burning hot, my forehead and temples dappled with sweat. My stiff erection has worked its way up my thigh, poking above the waist of my pants. It throbs, begging to be touched, the member's swollen head weeping. I ignore it, instead delving my tongue past the glistening pink lips of this woman's lush sex, plunging just barely inside. Isabela's hips lift responsively, her supple ass flexing and tightening against my hands. Holy fuck. She's incredibly wet, just slippery. What would it feel like to have her wrapped around my cock the way she's wrapped around my tongue? I swear she's squeezed me a few times, just with the muscles inside of her.

  I groan into her, reveling in how Isabela is trembling. With her balanced against the wall and my shoulders, I allow my hands to explore her, caressing her hips, down to the crease where they meet her thighs, then trail my fingers back over the cheeks of her ass, and my light touch elicits a shiver from her. I suck her with my mouth, moaning when she moans, my excitement spurring me to abandon the soft caress her bud and switch to vigorous licking. I try to imagine what this gorgeous ass would look like bouncing on my cock, and I begin to massage her buttocks, groping my way to her inner thighs, when she spreads her legs for me. I pull my head back and for the first time glance up at her face. I'm stunned by the exotic beauty gazing back at me. Her hair looks almost windblown, tossed around her shoulders, with a few dark strands stuck to her damp lower lip. A beat of sweat is rolling from her neck to her breasts, which heave in heavy panting. I turn my head to kiss her inner thigh. My mouth, slick with her wetness, leaves a glistening smear on her skin.

"Isabela," I whisper, wishing she could understand what this means to me. What she means to me.

  I raise one of my hands between her legs and slip two fingers inside her. The sleek, soft velvet of her inner walls seem to suck my fingers in. Isabela arches her back to the sensation of my fingers gliding in, and the whimpers breaking through her rugged pants makes my cock strain in response. I gasp, startled, as my cock suddenly and unexpectantly unloads, spurting seed onto my stomach and soaking the downy hair below my navel. My legs wilt beneath me for one moment under the flood of euphoria, but I steel myself and begin pumping my fingers inside her.

  "Carver," Isabela moans, urging me with a tighter grip in my hair.

  "Fuck," I groan out loud at the sound of my name, spreading my two fingers inside her, stretching her. I feel nearly intoxicated with the sight of her.

  "I need you," she whispers, guiding my mouth back to her sex with a tug of my hair. "Lick. Hurry."

  I accommodate her readily and her breath hitches suddenly. She stifles a cry, shaking all over as she yields to her orgasm. Her body clamps firmly around my fingers, pulsing hot, and I slow their thrust. To my amazement, she feels even wetter, softer, more exquisite. I withdraw my wet kiss from her and Isabela jerk her hips with a husky laugh.

  She strokes my hair, smoothing back the disheveled bits that defiantly flop back over my forehead. _She came_ , I marvel.

  I lick my lips, savoring her taste. _I made her come. With my mouth and tongue. I am a god._

  Reluctantly I allow her legs to slide off my shoulders. Her shapely body sinks into my arms. When her face is passingly level with mine, I lean in to kiss her, but she turns her face from me. "Thanks," she says, her feet on the ground again. She tugs at the skirt of her tunic. I stare at her stupidly before I remember to bring my hands back to my sides. She finally looks at me again. "So you wanted to know if Hawke and I had sex?"

  "No." I shake my head. I'd changed my mind about what I really want to know. "Why did you decide to come to me now, of all times? Why did you sneak to my tent?"

  Isabela jerks her head up. "What?" She blinks rapidly, her hands still caught on the hem of her tunic, which is doing a poor job of covering her ass.

  "Your turn, Isabela," I say quietly, trying to hide how nervous I feel. "The truth."

  She rolls her eyes. "You sure you want to waste this on such a silly question?"

  "It's not silly."

  "Stupid, then." She's suddenly annoyed, surprising me. "Fine. I came for sex. By the way, the sky is blue and water is wet."

  My heart feels like it's being drop-kicked against my ribs. "I asked why," I prompt, hoping she might tell me she cares for me.

  She suddenly has trouble looking me in the eye. "Hawke. Garrett, I mean. He's the why. Happy?"

  I heard wrong. That has to be wrong. "What?" My voice cracks.

  Isabela shoves her hair away from her face, refusing to look at me. "Hawke... asked me to. Or rather, he offered. And here we are."

  To her credit, she doesn't sound pleased with herself. At the moment, however, I fail to appreciate it. My head is starting to spin. I falter backward and end up leaning against the wall. Concerned, she steps toward me, her eyebrows raised ruefully. "Carver?"

  Shaking my head, I step back from her, repulsed by the thought of letting her console me. This has all been her and Garrett's sick idea of a joke.

  "Isabela," a low voice calls.

  A man is standing in shadows, partially eclipsed by the collapsed column. He raises a staff and faintly greenish light spreads outward from its bejeweled topper. Shadows bounce away from his footsteps as he comes closer.

  Isabela sighs, turning from me. "Yes, Anders?"

  I glare past her, at the mage. There's enough filtered light from the lyrium veins to see by; he didn't need to light his staff. I'm not an idiot; I know he's making a deliberate show of announcing himself. Has he been watching us long?

  I realize I no longer care about getting caught; there was never anything to fear about my brother finding out. I'm the butt of a depraved joke. But what sickens me most is Isabela willingly carried it out.

  Anders glances between us before settling on Isabela. He tries to keep his tone neutral. "Hawke's looking for you. He wants you at camp."

  "Better hurry," I tell Isabela nastily. "He might have another offer you can't refuse."


	4. Come At Me Bro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver tries to avoid being killed, molested, and tainted; he succeeds two out of three.

  Apparently having my heart ripped out by Isabela (with no lyrium tattoos required!) comes in only second on my day’s list of Worst Things Ever. The top honor was stolen by Bartrand, our former partner of the Tethras & Hawke expedition, who has marooned Garrett, Anders and I inside one of the primeval thaig’s countless vaults.

  “Varric won’t let the team leave without us,” Garrett stubbornly insists, pacing in front of Anders.

  “Varric doesn’t know we’re here,” I retort. The Maker must have a sense of humor, locking me in a room to die with these dickheads. “And I wouldn’t count on Bartrand having a crisis of conscious.”

  My mocking tone causes Garrett to glare at me. I recognize the warning in his eyes but ignore it. “This wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so greedy," I add. "You pushed him, arguing all the time about treasure; why wouldn’t he ditch us and keep everything for himself?”

  “You’re calling this my fault?” Garrett challenges me, almost eagerly. He’s rattled by Bartrand's treachery, looking for someone to blame. When he’s this riled, I’d normally get out of his way. But right now? I couldn't care less about how he feels.

  “Everything’s your fault!” I shout angrily.

  Anders' head jerks up to gape at us. Until now, he's only stared at the ground between his feet since sitting down on a fallen chunk of masonry.

  “What?” Garrett snarls the word.

  I square my jaw. “You heard me. You fucked up. Again. Surprise!”

  Garrett’s eyes widen in disbelief. For one glorious moment, I'm proud of myself. But the feeling turns cold and drops to the bottom of my stomach when Garrett steps toward me. I instinctively reach for the hilt of my greatsword over my shoulder. Although I outweigh my brother by a good twenty pounds, I admit he's intimidating, much to my chagrin.

  Anders jumps to his feet in alarm. “Don’t listen to him, Hawke.” He puts his hand on Garrett’s shoulder.

  There's no way Anders could restrain him, so I'm surprised when Garrett actually stops his advance. But he's still reluctant to back down, as I observe his grip tighten on his staff.

_I bet he'd like to bludgeon me with it._

  “Hawke,” Anders employs the calm, compelling voice he reserves for the patients in his clinic. “There won’t be a rescue. And we won’t escape if we kill each other here.” Anders catches my gaze and I swear his eyes look bluer than I remember them. “We have to get back to Kirkwall. The only way to do that is together.”

  And that's how my brother and I came to grudgingly agree to breathe the same air.

  We scour the vault and find a chink in a wall which we're able to dig out and shimmy through. For days afterward we wander the Deep Roads searching for a way back to the surface. We have a lovely time appreciating the local wildlife when it isn't trying to kill us, but the scenery leaves something to be desired. Unless you're really into rocks. Then oh boy, put on your frolicking pants.

  We decide to take turns guarding the other two when the fatigue becomes too much and we're forced to rest. I’m dead tired when I spread out on the ground, but I can't close my eyes and not think about Isabela, reliving my last moments with her. Yes, I’m still pissed and hurt and confused, but I wish I could see her. When I don't return to camp, will she feel anything at all?

  "...I said no..."

  I slowly become aware of murmured conversation behind me and open my bleary eyes.

  The tunnel walls are a dull green, tinted by the soft illumination shining from Anders' staff. I'm only half-awake when I hear the familiar bass of Garrett's voice; "... pent up... need it too..." I shut my eyes as they whisper together. There's rustling, then later, a low, smothered moan. I bite down on my lip until I taste blood and remain awake until Anders comes to shake my shoulder.

  More boring walking happens. Anders talks the whole time. Just when I think I have no more fucks to give as he rambles on about a stupid cat, the former Grey Warden abruptly stops. "Ooh," he says, and by his dismayed tone you'd think he'd only just stepped in nug shit.

  "Darkspawn?" Garrett sighs.

  "Yep."

  There's a band of hurlocks and genlocks further up the Road. It doesn't take long to dispatch them. I get tangled up with the darkspawn Alpha and receive a nasty gash from its crude battleax across my bicep. When Anders approaches me after the fight to offer healing I glare at him until he backs off.

  "It's fine," I say curtly when actually it hurts like a bitch. But I don’t want him touching me. I dislike him more than ever, especially for making me listen to his and Garrett's disgusting activities when they think I'm sleeping.

  By the next occasion we rest, my wound has begun to fester. I sit under the red light of Garrett's staff while my brother is dozing nearby with his back against a wall. I gingerly peel back the torn sleeve of my tunic to inspect my arm and grimace at what I see.

  "It's infected," Anders says softly. He leans against the base of a dusty Paragon statue, watching me. I try to ignore him, but it isn't any easier than ignoring the pain throbbing in my arm. Anders scratches the blonde stubble on his jaw. "Until it's treated, it's susceptible to darkspawn corruption. Should that take hold, then there is nothing I will be able to do to help you."

  That hasn't occurred to me. I look up, jarred by this news. Anders looks guarded as he watches the changes in my expression. He expects I'll stay stubborn, I think. But I’m not going to curl up and die out of spite. "Just hurry up and fix it," I say, trying to sound annoyed with him when truthfully his warning has made me afraid. I don’t want to die a virgin in the damn Deep Roads! When Anders doesn’t move, I stand up and walk over to his lonely spot on the fringe of the light. "Well?"

  "First take off your shirt."

  I raise my arms to grab the back of my shirt like I usually do but am forced to stop, growling in pain. With faint amusement tracing his lips, Anders gets to his feet and helps remove my tunic. He tries to be gentle but when he pulls my injured arm out of its blood-crusted sleeve I curse at him irritably.

  He just shrugs. "Lay there," he instructs me, motioning to the gritty floor under the enormous dwarven carving. When I frown, he rolls his eyes. "And you were doing so well. Just lay down. You need to be relaxed."

  I decide to just do what he tells me and get this over with. I keep a suspicious eye on him as I lay on my back at his feet. Anders raises an eyebrow. "If you're going to glare at me the whole time, then turn over."

  Good idea, I silently agree.

  I awkwardly roll over onto my stomach, grunting as I try to move my bad arm as little as possible. Anders shrugs out of his bulky coat and kneels at my side. "Okay, now relax," Anders suggests as he observes me lay like a brick. But when I feel his fingers first touch my skin I can't stop myself from tensing even more. I grit my teeth as Anders probes the aching wound, refusing to whimper. I distract myself by trying to remember when I last saw Anders wash his hands, but it doesn’t help.

  When I notice his magic seeping into me I realize I’d forgotten what it felt like to be healed with it. Since father died it’s been nothing but bandages and sour-tasting potions. I close my eyes, relaxed by this unexpected comfort. Anders doesn’t seem to notice my new ease as he presses a palm to the wound in almost a gruff manner. There's no longer any pain, but I doubt he’d apologize if there was. I’ve been a prat to him. I’ve a right to be, I remind myself.

  The infection is siphoned from my blood, burning up in the white-blue glow surrounding Anders' hands. The sensation is strangely euphoric, a warm and pleasant rush that spreads through my body, reaching my fingertips and toes. I couldn’t resist relaxing if I had wanted to.

  I definitely don’t want to.

  There’s pinching on my arm as the flesh begins to knit itself back together. Once the skin reforms, Anders kneads my bicep, not gently; his fingertips are blunt and hard. I grunt absently, not minding. He says something, then he pulls his hands away.

  "Hm?" My eyelids feel too heavy to prop up more than halfway.

  "It's done," Anders repeats.

  I mumble drowsily. "Don't stop yet."

  “Does it still hurt?” He asks with concern.

  “No,” I murmur, unable to keep my eyes open. “Feels good.”

  Anders doesn't speak. I only realize I’ve fallen half-asleep when his hands tentatively touch me and I grow aware that his weight is on the back of my thighs. He positioned himself as I was dozing. I find myself indifferent to the close contact and move my arms under my head to be more comfortable. I feel his weight shift before Anders tentatively begins massaging the small of my back, as if unconvinced that I’m in my right mind. He could be right.

  “Thanks,” I murmur it so softly I’m not sure if the entire word makes it off my lips.

  I’ve been hateful toward him, but he keeps trying to help me anyway. I’m not forgiving him, but I do feel a little ashamed of myself.

  Anders doesn’t say anything but his touch gains confidence. He works his thumbs into the knots of hard muscle in my back, formed by years of anxiety and stress. I must be in and out of sleep because sometimes I think I faintly hear Isabela’s laugh. I come to forget that I’m not laying on my own smelly bed in Gamlen’s hovel, listening to Garrett’s gravelly snoring and the muted thump of the dog scratching itself in the next room.

  The rough, calloused texture of Anders’ palms coax me awake several times, though I hardly do more than take a deep breath and slip back to sleep. He smoothes his palms across my back, his skin so hot a bead of sweat rolls down the dip by my tailbone. I’m dreaming of Isabela straddling me, her fingers inside my pants, plundering for buried treasure. When Anders wipes away the sweat from my skin it's Isabela I imagine, making me shiver under the brush of his finger.

  He yanks his touch from me.

  Minutely I notice its absence and utter a soft questioning noise.

  "Nothing," he whispers.

  After several moments, his fingers caress down my side, gliding against my skin softly enough I think I'm dreaming it. Maker knows how badly I long for Isabela’s touch again, to feel her bare skin and mouth and the hot slickness between her thighs. The memory makes me harden. At the back of my throat there's a groan of need.

  “Carver,” a whisper; Isabela I think; it's thick and low and husky, and I shudder pleasantly when I remember her voice. “Turn over?”

  Half-asleep, I obediently turn over.

  Wisps of awareness pass over me: weight on my thighs, the ground against the back of my head, fingers pulling the laces on the front of my pants. _Isabela._ Maker, I need to feel her mouth again, so badly. A hand reaches into my trousers and pulls out the length trapped against my thigh. The fingers around my shaft feel more authentic than any wet dream I’ve had, and I feel a very real thrill when I those fingers grip me hard. I can't help a moan. She pumps me slowly, almost hesitantly. Even the Isabela of my dreams tortures me. I take a deep breath when the pace quickens. It feels so good it'll be worth waking up to pants soaked with cum. It's been too long since I've felt other than miserable.

  I roll my head to the side, half-aware of the poorly-lit tunnel around me. I hear soft, ragged panting. My eyes open wider, listening, and I realize the breathing is not my own. This isn't a dream.

  Even as I think it, all vestige of sleep crumbles away. With dread, I turn my face and see Anders. He’s masked in shadow, his back to the low light, yet his flushed face couldn't have looked a brighter pink. His eyes are half-lidded, his head bent as he gazes where our bodies meet. His lips are drawn tight as if trying to suppress his shuddered breathing. Revulsion grips me and I am barely able to glance at his hands. He holds the burden of his own erection in one of his palms, stroking himself while in his other hand he strokes me.

  “Stop,” I order him. I start to sit up. “Stop!”

  Anders does stop but looks confused by my panic. Remorse immediately flashes across his face when he sees how horrified I am. Without another warning, I shove him off me as hard as I can. He falls back to the ground with a yelp as I jump to my feet. I barely hold back from kicking him.

  “What the fuck, Anders!” I yell, feeling sick.

  The blonde man gets to his knees. “I’m sorry, I thought… I thought you wanted--”

  He stops, turning to look at Garrett, who has opened his eyes and is taking in the sight of Anders on his knees in front of me, and then me, cock out. Garrett is instantly on his feet. “Hawke,” Anders sounds even more desperate. “Please, I--”

  I’m too slow to react when Garrett rushes at me. I raise my hands as he plows into me, sending us both back into the darkness. I hold my hands to my face as Garrett punches me. He manages to land a blow on my ear and then I can’t hear Anders’ frantic yelling anymore. I push and kick to get Garrett off me, finally rolling onto my feet, and lunge for the sword I left against a wall.

  A force hits me in the back with enough force to pick me up and send me flying. I hit a chunk of masonry and the agony that pierces me can only mean cracked ribs. I’m dazed when I land but still have the wits to recognize I've been hit by magic. “Are you crazy?” I scream at Garrett, shakily pushing myself back to my feet.

  Wrong word choice. I try to brace for the second wall of invisible force as it rushes toward me, but I'm picked up like I weigh no more than a scrap of paper and am hurled into the darkness. There’s nothing to catch me this time and I fall and fall. I must black out because the next thing I know I’m laying at the bottom of a chasm with a broken leg. Trying to move only wrings pained cries from me.

  “Carver…” Anders’ voice echoes everywhere. “Where are you?”

  “Antiva,” I try to shout but am choked when my chest constricts with pain. I look up and see far above me two winking lights that I realize are Garrett and Anders’ staves. “Hello?” I croak, but I don’t think they hear me.

  “What… we do…?”

  Their voices have retreated to a murmur. I strain to hear them.

  “...there’s nothing…”

  “Tell them… an accident… we...”

  “No, we tell them… died… the taint…”

  I feel gutted when realize what they’re considering.

  “No,” I moan and frantically grope rock as I try to shove myself up and onto my feet. When I bend the knee of my broken leg, fire floods my nerves. I pass out, biting through my tongue as I collapse. When I wake up, there isn’t any light anywhere.

  “Brother!” I yell hoarsely, the taste of old blood roiling my stomach. “I’m alive!” I feel my eyes grow hot and I lean back my head to keep from crying. I will not cry. “Maker, please... don't leave me....”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Divergent Canon: Carver's fate in the Deep Roads differs from the version Varric will tell Seeker Pentaghast. But that's bound to happen when you make up shit to cover for your bro.


	5. One of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver joins the Templar Order in hopes of controlling mages like his brother but learns that the templars are just as fucked up.
> 
> ATTN: This chapter contains explicit rape. Hit "end notes" to skip this chapter and read a summary instead.

“Pardon me ser, I’ve brought your clothing for the ceremony.”

I don’t hear the Chantry Sister enter the alcove until she shuffles a few feet closer, where I kneel at the foot of a statue of Andraste. “Ser Amell?” She says hesitantly.

I look up as best as my stiff neck allows. It still feels strange to respond to that name, but I offer the young Sister a small smile. “Thank you. It’s already morning?”

She scarcely meets my eyes, which I’m sure are pink and glazed from my sleepless night, and smiles nervously. “Yes, ser. The Night Vigil has ended. C-Congratulations.”

I unclasp my hands, fingers tangled from hours of prayer, and reach behind me to rub feeling back into my legs, saying, “Congratulate me if I make it to the courtyard without falling down.”

I look up again to see she’s nibbling her bottom lip and allowing her gaze to stray toward the door. _Subtle, lady_.

“Thank you,” I say again, this time reaching out for the bundle in her arms. The Sister piles the clothing into my arms and then yanks her hands back like she's afraid a touch from me could destroy her holiest vows. She nods, flustered, and leaves without another word.

The treatment doesn’t surprise me anymore.

Almost everyone knows I was a mercenary for the Red Iron and some people refuse to forget it. Or let me forget it. That kind of renown is helpful when you’re a sellsword in the city, but has been a tarnish on my reputation among the templars. Most templars here come directly from the Chantry, some from the aristocracy, all sheltered enough to delight in scandal and rumor. I'm the "bad boy of the barracks" whether it's true or not. Knight-Commander Meredith would probably have turned me away at the gate if I hadn’t been in escort by Grey Wardens who had picked me up in the Deep Roads. Nice people, by the way.

With a snort of bemusement, I shakily get my feet under me and stand. The leg I broke a year ago nags me until I bend down and massage the scar on my shin. When the ache in my bone subsides I leave the chapel in a slow, thoughtful walk, carry my clothing with me to the bathing hall. I join the other recruits who also completed their Night Vigil. I expect the ritual cleansing to be a solemn affair since it’s about purifying the body and spirit, but there’s laughter and conversation when I enter the large chamber of smooth, paved stones. The chatter explodes raucously when the recruits floating in the pools see me.

“Carver!” Georg roars, standing up in the waist-high water and throwing open his burly arms. “Good lad!”

A chorus of voices greets me. “Congratulations, Amell!”

“Hey, Carver!” Abelone exclaims, her tits bobbing in the rocking water, “I heard you stayed on your knees all night long!”

“All them private training sessions with the Captain paid off, eh!” Georg howls with laughter.

I give them a sheepish grin, knowing it’s what they want to see, and sure enough they laugh even harder. When they turn their taunts on the next soul to enter the hall, I move aside to strip off my tunic and trousers. I’m proud of myself for not blushing with embarrassment when I step naked into the pool. Truthfully, I don't think twice about it anymore.

Recruits eat, sleep, and bathe together, with the dual purpose of strengthening bonds and stripping away harmful proclivities. When I first enlisted, I couldn’t imagine I’d ever like living this way. A year later I feel blessed with true brothers and sisters; it’s a family I didn’t expect to have, and one I won’t willingly give up. I guess that was the point.

“I am proud of you, recruits,” Knight-Captain Cullen declares, once we’ve assembled in the barracks courtyard. “You have shown great dedication and devotion to guarding the Maker’s laws and the teachings of His Bride, Andraste. I could not present better or more worthy knights to our Knight-Commander today.”

I watch the captain closely as he paces in front of us and catch the man smiling briefly. “However, dedication and devotion is only half our battle. We must be tireless, vigilant, expect no thanks or reward. We do the Maker’s work! Remember that.”

We hoot with excitement, sensing the official ceremony is going to begin. “Yes, ser!” 

Cullen sighs at our lack of solemnity and gruffly orders us into parade formation. We’re led from the barracks and into the open courtyard of the Gallows proper, all wearing the same white linen tunic and trousers (to symbolize our purity) and deep red robes (to symbolize the nobility of our cause).

I’m amazed at how differently I feel about being back in the Gallows, two years after my family stepped off the refugee boat seeking haven from the Blight. The Gallows had been overflowing with refugees at the time, the air heavy with despair. I was one of those sods, desperate to get out of the Gallows, never dreaming I’d return to make my home here.

I take a look around at the Gallows today. It’s filled with templars, recruits still in training, Chantry officiates, friends and family. There’s a fair number of gawkers from the city too, notably from the Alienage, come to get a look at Grand Cleric Elthina presiding over the ceremony. There’s a mood of hopeful joy that makes you forget you’re standing in a prison. Colorful banners flutter from the tops of imposing towers, soft gray stone gleaming in the sunlight. Breezes off the bay keep the air cool. The tall bronze statues of abused slaves are... still as dismal as ever, but what can you do?

 _Flower crowns_ , I imagine Merrill would blithely suggest.

Knight-Commander Meredith gives a rather bleak speech about the dangers of magic and the mages in desperate need of our protection. It lacks any of Knight-Captain Cullen’s warmth, but I hardly listen to the words. I’m more interested in observing the commander I’ve barely glimpsed since I'd been in her office my first day. She cuts an imposing figure despite her age, not much older than my own mother. When she’s finished speaking, the Grand Cleric steps forward to give a sermon.

At last it’s time for the recruits to come forward one by one. When it’s my turn to climb the dais, I kneel before the Grand Cleric and receive my personal sword and shield from her. I declare my vows, am blessed and anointed, and then rise a Knight-Templar. When everyone has done this, the Knight-Captain releases us with a brief speech. He has an uncomfortable smile when he suggests we spend the day in meditation and reflection, pretending not to know about the celebration planned for tonight (the Knight-Commander doesn’t approve of revelry). I nod with everyone else promising to do so.

With the ceremony ended, Meredith returns to her office and the whole yard relaxes. I mingle through the crowd, approaching a silver-haired woman near the steps to the city gate. She’s dressed richly, as befits a noblewoman. She smiles breathlessly when she sees me and rushes into my arms.

“Mother,” I greet her, closing my eyes when she kisses my cheek.

“My boy,” she weeps, “My baby. My Carver.”

I let her hug me for a few moments, then draw back at arm’s-length. Her hands don’t let me go, clutching me like I would disappear if she did. There are tears still in her eyes while she inspects me, looking me over as if deciding I’ve been eating enough. “You look so grown up, so much like Malcolm.”

My black hair is a little longer around my ears, neatly combed, my face leaner and more rugged. I blush from the compliment, although I’m reluctant to speak of my apostate father in the middle of the Gallows. I'm Carver Amell, not Hawke, so far as anyone else knows.

“I received your letters.” I change the subject. “I’m sorry I haven’t written. I never know what to say.”

Mother squeezes my hands and smiles. “Don’t fret, darling. Perhaps I’ll be allowed to visit, now that you’re--” Her lip trembles. “I’m sorry,” she blinks, “I told myself I wouldn’t cry today. When your brother came home without you, I gave up hope I’d ever see you again.”

Not sure what to say, I do my best to smile. Her polished fingernails dig into my palms, but she smiles back at me. “I’m so proud of you. You did your best, darling,” she says. “When Garrett told me you didn’t make it, I shouldn’t have….” Fresh tears slide down her face. “Forgive me.”

“Everything is alright now,” I say, pulling her close. She hugs me tight.

“I’m your mother, I should have known you were alive.”

I release her and she pulls a handkerchief of pink silk from her stringpurse and dries her cheeks with it. “Garrett believed I was dead. Don’t blame yourself. I’m here now.” She smiles at my comforting words and I still have no regrets about sparing her the truth. “How is he?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.

“He…wanted to be here,” she takes a step back, excusing herself from looking me in the eye while she tucks away the handkerchief. “But he’s, well…”

“An asshole?”

“Carver! I was going to say stubborn.” Her eyes twinkle at me and for a moment she looks like the mother I remember as a child. “I hardly see him these days, he’s out all hours with those… friends of his.” Too soon, the liveliness in her eyes fade. “He doesn’t understand your choices. He thinks you joined the Templars to get back at him somehow. He needs time.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course he makes this about _him_.”

Mother purses her lips at me disapprovingly, and I know I sound like a tit. Garrett just brings out the best in me. We don’t say anything for a few minutes and watch the crowded yard instead. I spot Georg nearby with his young daughter on his shoulders. We wave to each other.

“Are you sure about this, darling?” Mother says quietly.

“This is the best way I can protect the family.” She gives me a curious look, but I can’t tell her that I think she needs protection from her eldest son. “Father named me in honor of a templar. This is where I’m meant to be. This is where I can be my own man.” She still looks uncertain, so I lean down to kiss the top of her head, breathing her expensive perfume. “I’m happy here.”

-+-

 

That night in the feasting hall I would have liked to have a quiet drink by myself to mull over the day, but the festivities don’t allow it. I’m pulled into several drinking contests and an arm-wrestling match that somehow divests me of half my possessions before I’m finally able to stumble out of the hall. The night is chilly and the stone floor feels cold enough to burn. I lost my shoes to Paxley earlier in the evening. Barefoot, I return to the barracks and fall drunk asleep the moment I throw myself into my bunk.

I feel a heavy hand shaking my shoulder long before I manage to open my eyes. I groggily look around me and find the barracks still dark. Georg is peering at me, his breath stale with ale. Someone is standing behind him, holding a small lantern of veilfire. My eyes follow its electric green flame. “W-What is it?”

“Initiation,” Georg answers in a hushed voice. “C’mon lad, I told ‘em you’d be good for it.”

I don’t understand what initiation he’s talking about, but when he takes my arm to help me up, I trust not to question it. I follow the two of them outside and suppress a shiver. I still don’t have shoes. The cold air is sobering and I realize the person with Georg is wearing a heavy cloak with the hood drawn to conceal their face.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Quiet,” Georg puts a finger up to his lips.

We make a stop in another wing and another initiate joins our group. I squint at his familiar face and his nervous eyes get bigger when he recognizes me. Brody. I know little other than malicious gossip that his father is an elf.

Our guide leads us across the courtyard. If I didn’t feel like a sneak yet, I do when our mysterious friend approaches the armored sentries flanking the entrance to the lower level of the Gallows and something is furtively exchanged between their hands. I get a glimpse of a vial glowing with a faint blue light as one sentry pockets it.

 _That's lyrium_.

It takes a minute for the iron gate to be opened, creaking as the portcullis is raised by a crank. Georg, Brody, and I are beckoned forward.

_I shouldn’t go in there._

The dungeons are in there. They say thousands of people have died there over the centuries. It’s where the Knight-Commander keeps apostates before they take their Harrowing and mages waiting to be made Tranquil. I shudder.

“You, boy. This way.” I realize I’m standing by myself in the courtyard. “This way,” the cloaked man repeats impatiently.

I push down my foolish fears and walk under the gate. One of the guards chuckles when I pass, the sound muffled by their closed helm.

Clinking chains and tired whimpers grow in our wake as we pass squalid cells, the bodies huddled in them moving in the dark. There’s an acrid stench in the air and I cough into my hand. The faint light of the lantern paints everything in surreal shades of green, blue, and licks of purple. I’m surprised when we finally reach the endless of the corridor of bars, only to be ushered into an empty cell. It’s a cramped space with all four of us and the smell of sweat pinches my nose. Still preferable to the perfume of piss and vomit so far.

Our guide turns to us, raising the lantern to look into our faces. When the lamplight hits his long chin and the whiskers of meticulous grooming burns a copper red, I gasp.

“Ser Karras!”

“ _Shhh!_ ” Karras hisses through his teeth so hard that spittle flies off his lips. “No names tonight, _boy_.”

I bow my head, muttering apologies. Now I understand the initiation Georg mentioned. There are fraternities among the Order’s brotherhood; templars who gather under unofficial banners to organize their influence, which they use to passionately push political agendas. The activity isn’t condoned by the Order, but it’s not discouraged either.

“No names,” Karras rasps, “No one gives a shit who you are. It’s _what_ you are. You’re one of us now.” He gives us each a hard look, and when his cold eyes meet mine I nod.

Satisfied, he takes a strangely-shaped key from his pocket and shoves it into a slot in the wall. With a push, the wall swings inward to reveal a hidden doorway. Without another word, we file through and descend a harrowing flight of crooked stairs made from rotting planks. My palms are sweating by the time we make it to the bottom.

I’m anxious and excited at the same time. Being recruited into a fraternity is an honor. Karras isn’t the fuzziest feeling-est templar when it comes to mages, but neither am I, and with the city’s burgeoning anti-mage sentiments, the Knight-Lieutenant’s chapter is likely to become very powerful. I’ll need those connections, knowing my brother. Garrett won’t sit on his hands even if he’s struck it rich and bought back the family estate and titles. He’ll reach for more, and he doesn’t know the art of subtlety. I have a strong feeling that when we do meet again, it won’t be for a family picnic.

“Where are we?” Brody whispers.

“I heard about this place from a cousin in the coterie,” Georg’s voice rumbles in his chest when he whispers. “They call it a dungeon but it’s just a buncha tunnels. Smugglers dug ‘em. They run throughout the Gallows, maybe under the whole city.”

I listen, thinking back to another life when I worked Darktown with Garrett. We’d used these tunnels then, and had gotten lost so often the carta knew us by name. Ended up in the sewer by the Lowtown docks once; the smell wouldn’t wash from my clothes for a week. Karras walks quickly but seems unconcerned by with our dangerous environment. He prods the darkness with his lantern, stopping at a fork in the tunnels. He searches the ground until he finds a symbol gouged in the dirt, then leads us into the left tunnel.

There’s a door at the end of the tunnel, outlined in orange and yellow light. Shadows flicker past the cracks in the warped wood where stripes of torchlight shine through. As we get close, the din coming from the other side of the door coax a shudder out of me. It’s a jarring discord of soft moans, harsh breathing, sharp curses, and tearful whimpering. The primal noises penetrate me to my bones. Without consent, I feel myself getting hard.

_Maker, it sounds like…_

My heartbeat skips and I can’t do more than watch as the door is opened.

“These robes get better than they deserve.” Karras mutters as he ushers us into the room.

A woman shakily cries out, followed by a man’s labored grunting. “Maker, she’s still too tight…” His balls slap harshly against her pink slit as he plows between the quivering cheeks of her ass. She cries out in tandem as he stretches her, teeth bared in a wicked grin.

"Welcome your new brothers," Karras announces to the room.

I watch my feet, at once ashamed that anyone should recognize me.

“There’s a hole for you over here,” a man beckons to Georg, not once breaking his rhythm as he plunges his cock past the swollen, abused lips of a woman lying supine atop the body of another male. The man on the floor rubs his hands from her rocking tits down to her round hips and indecisively back again, his shaft sliding in and out between her thighs at a more leisurely pace than his partner. Her robes have been torn from her shoulders, hanging in tatters around her waist, but the sigil of the Starkhaven Circle is still visible in the stitching on the limp cloth.

My breath catches in my throat when Georg obediently removes his tunic and joins the two templars, kneeling between the legs of the man on the floor. He pulls his manhood from his pants, allowing his balls outside the waistband, and briskly strokes himself to full hardness. Minutely they’re both inside of her, independently thrusting. Georg’s face blossoms red as he ruts into her, the bun of hair knotted at the back of his neck slowly coming undone. I think of the daughter he carried on his shoulders this morning and feel sick.

Next to me Brody is nearly panting with excitement, cock straining against his pants as he watches a slender male elf bury his face between the legs of a woman against a wall. My face burns in embarrassment when I recognize her as being from the training yard. Her chest heaves as she gasps wantonly, grinding her hips against the elf's face.

I look away, but there’s nowhere to look where there isn’t something more debauched taking place. “You going to stand there all night?”

I startle at Karras’ question, licking my lips as I try to pick the right excuse. “I… um, enjoy watching,” I mumble, unable to meet his stare. Karras narrows his eyes before his gaze flicks down to my crotch. He must be satisfied with the bulge there because he returns to grimly watching over the others without another word.

The feels unbearably muggy. My head is spinning. My treacherous cock is aching, begging to be touched, licked, slid into something hot and wet. I keep my hands balled at my sides. _I can’t do this..._

“Please, ser,” a girl is heavily panting over in a corner, pleading with the templar beneath her, who seems to ignore her, his large hands digging into her soft thighs and pushing them further apart.

She whimpers in pain as he sinks into her, making her fingers dig into his chest of hair. The girl looks hardly old enough to have taken her Harrowing. She struggles uselessly in his grip. The man looks old enough to be her father, with gray temples and creased face. “Please,” she gasps loudly as he buries himself to the root and begins shifting his hips, striking deep, wringing a strangled moan each time their bodies connect with a slap of skin. “My name is Cyndal. Remember Cyndal.”

The man grunts noncommittally, raking his fingers across the modestly curved cheeks of her ass.

“Please, ser, my--nng--mother… if you could give her a l-letter… let her know I’m… nnngh, safe…”

 _Safe?_ I think with disgust.

The templar chuckles. “Cyndal?” He takes her small breasts in hand and pinches their pink nipples, smiling as she tries to wriggle away from his fingers. “There’ll be nothing left of you to be remembered by morning.” He laughs, hugging her to his chest, and pounds into her with such force that she begins to sob. Or perhaps it’s his words that break her.

I hear a keen whine and dare to glance at Brody, who has taken his turn with the female templar's elf.

Brody pulls free of the elf’s bruised mouth, cum dribbling down the arch of his cock. Gasping for breath, he grips the base of his cock and wipes himself clean on the elf's smooth brown cheeks. The elf remains still, lips murmuring something only Brody hears and which causes him to blush intensely.

The young templar notices me watching, and I flinch when our eyes meet, jerking my face away.

I stand there so long that my bad leg begins to howl with pain. But I’m afraid to move and draw attention to myself, so I allow the pain to gnaw through me. But it isn’t much later when Karras is no longer content to let me spectate. He grabs me by the shoulder and hisses into my ear, “Give these robes something to fear!”

“I don’t--”

Karras gives me a withering glare and my voice dies in my throat. “Do your duty, templar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl;dr After Carver gets out of the Deep Roads he does a spectacular "fuck you!" to Garrett by joining the Templar Order. His mom is chill with it, but Garrett not so much. Carver is invited to join an anti-mage fraternity but has a crisis when the "initiation" is an orgy of rape against mages.


	6. Watched Like A Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver faces ostracization for his choices and it's a real buzz-kill.

  It’s almost dawn when I crawl into my bunk and pull the wool blanket over my head. My chest aches from the race of my pulse. Turning onto my side, I shut my eyes tight and take deep breaths to calm myself.

  I try at pretending that I’m only afraid of being caught slinking back to barracks past curfew. It’s still a long time until my body stops feeling like a plank of wood and the tension in my muscles begins to unwind. But I must have succumbed to sheer exhaustion because I’m roused awake at the toll of the hourly bell, its deep bronze tones echoing outside from the barracks courtyard. I sit up and swing my bare feet off the bunk and touch down on the floor. I wince, a headache gripping my head like a vice. I sit there, rubbing my groggy eyes, as my roommates slip from their beds. The room fills with yawns and murmuring conversation. Templars aren’t big morning people, I’ve found. Looking down at my soiled feet, crusted with dirt from walking barefoot through the dungeon, I decide to skip a bath to avoid running into anyone of the antis fraternity. As everyone else leaves the room for the bathing hall, I dress myself.

I put on an undertunic and red underrobe with yellow embroidered sunburst on the skirt. As I pull on my leather boots, I realize this is my first day as an anointed templar. I’d been looking forward to this, but I can’t muster any excitement. As much as I try to keep last night’s clandestine meeting off my mind, a sullen heaviness has settled inside me. When the others begin to trickle back into barracks with damp hair and fresh faces, I’ve finished buckling myself into my plate chestguard. Abelone notices me when I try to leave. She whistles at my back. “You better get to the chapel and pray, Carver, because it’s a sin to look that good!”

“Thanks,” I mutter, leaving her crinkling her nose when I don’t offer another word. I’m in no mood for antics. I sit by myself in the feasting hall, keeping my eyes pointed at the heel of bread in my hands as I pick it apart. When the hour bell again tolls, I eagerly make for the training yard, needing to hit something so I can start feeling normal.

Georg is lying in wait for me by the gatehouse. He stands by the entrance to the training yard like a guard but he’s wearing the same low-rank armor as me. I did not expect to see him this soon, but I’m not surprised. He’d want to talk to me after I abandoned the initiation, but I’m only sorry I don’t have a picnic packed for the lovely guilt trip planned. I watch his green eyes dart from face to face as men and women pass through the gate, and then they’re locked on me. I don’t waver. I walk up to him. His arms are crossed, his muscles looking ready to pop from the strain, but when I get close, he lowers his arms. His expression, which I mistook for resentment, seems more anxious when I look at him closely.

“Georg--” I begin, but he shakes his head. A tendril of brown hair flops onto his forehead.

“Don’t,” he tells me. “I just want to know if this is your decision. It may not be too late, lad. You could still join us.”

I blink, at first confused by what he’s saying, then upset when I see he isn’t the least bit remorseful about abusing those mages. “It was already too late the moment you opened that door. Georg, how could you do that? How could you think I could?”

Georg looks confused this time. “I thought you equal to the task. You’ve never shown a soft belly to these robes! And what a task to have, lad! You sound like we tortured 'em; all you had to do was enjoy yourself.” I stare at him incredulously. “They were bloody well enjoying it by the end,” Georg responds mulishly to my silence. “That Starkhaven bitch; Grace, I think? She’s taken a shine to me. Begged to have my cock in her again, today in the conservatory.” He grins at me. “She’s got an ass worth rolling in rashvine for. Think those Tranquil keepers will like the view?” He starts to laugh but stops when I don’t join in. I have no idea how to talk to my friend. In one night, I feel like I’ve been separated from him by all the water in the Waking Sea. “Bloody say something, Carver, and stop looking at me like that.”

I lower my eyes and Georg snorts irritably, looking away from me. “I see.”

He walks away. I stand there for a time to collect myself, nodding as a few templars call to me as they pass through the gate. When I’m certain I’ll hold together, I join everyone else in the training yard. The Maker hasn’t seen fit to stop punishing me yet, though; as I see Knight-Lieutenant Karras stationed by the weapons rack. His arms are cross sternly, and I tense with a suppressed shiver when his roaming gaze finds me. I have no choice but approach to gather my weapon, but I do manage to look somewhat casual as I walk up to him.

“Ser Amell,” Karras sneers. _Well, this is promising_. “I’m surprised to see you.”

“Where else would I be, Ser Karras?” I mind my tone and incline a nod to him. He watches me reach for a blunted training sword. His eyes follow my hand like it was a rat scurrying underfoot.

“Tevinter I’d wager, if you hadn’t stopped running.”

I level my chin and keep my eyes trained on his. It would give him satisfaction to cow me, but I think it’s enough that I acquitted myself of dignity at the initiation. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Lieutenant.”

“You can’t disappoint me, Amell. You were predictably weak. Soft and weak. It was my own shortcoming for considering someone of such dubious loyalty for my fraternity.”

I have to blink to keep myself from flinching from his cold, immutable eyes. His comments chafe me and I allow my tone to teeter into sarcasm. “Then I thank you for your indulgence. Is there anything else, ser?”

Karras’ grim mouth seems to disappear as he presses his lips tightly together. “Indeed.” He casually reaches for one of the training swords and slips it from its hook. I peddle back as he steps toward me, and we enter one of the sparring circles created by discolored sand, meticulously maintained by the Tranquil. “I always found your story odd, Amell. A last son of your dried up lineage, resorting to dishonorable work as a mercenary, who one day is dropped on our doorstep by a contingent of Grey Wardens.” Karras continues, raising his sword to me. “Your name is odd too. Amell. Old, and odd, and disgraced.” He thrusts. I hold the hilt of my sword with both hands and parry his blade. Karras advances, holding out his sword to me, and I keep knocking it aside as I retreat from him. “Oh, yes, I remember your family. I was a boy when the Amell line crumbled. Lord Aristide Amell would have been Viscount instead of Dumar, but that family well was poisoned, wasn’t it?” His words rattle me. He lunges, catching me off-guard, and strikes upon my arm. My pauldrons are fashioned of leather, providing little buffer against the blow, and I’m lucky that I don’t drop my own sword as pain shoots through my shoulder. I stagger but try swinging my blade to set him back, but he effortlessly knocks it aside. “The Grey Wardens were an interesting touch; they succeeded in distracting the Knight-Commander from questioning your merit.”

I scrape my forehead with the cuff of my glove, using it to wipe the damp hair away from my eyes. He’s attempting to provoke me but I can’t figure out what he wants. Unless he’s insinuating... No way, I reassure myself. Karras can’t know about my father, or Garrett and Bethany. Still, I should be careful. I try to look confused. “I don’t understand, ser. You think I’m hiding something from our commander?” In the corner of my eye, I see that a fringe crowd has gathered to watch us. “Do you think I have magic?” I try, uncertainly.

His expression remains stoic but something changes in his eyes. “You may pose a greater danger,” he says. “You’re a liability, an apologist, and sympathy for the robes will cost everyone around you.”

"I'm not an apologist!" I yell, caving to my anger.

"You failed to prove that." He sneers at me again.

I see an opening when he shifts weight to his other foot, and lunge forward with enough force that my boots raise a haze of dust around my legs. The opportunity I saw slams shut when Karras dodges the tip of my sword and lands a blow on my wrist with the edge of his sword. Here’s a tip: don’t let the word _blunt_ fool you. I shout in pain and lose control of my fingers and my sword drops to the dirt.

“You’re young and arrogant,” Karras jeers, shoving his hand into my back as I stumble past him. I skid outside the sparring ring. There’s polite applause from onlookers before they fan out and return their attention to their own training partners. My match with Ser Karras will reach the four corners of the Gallows by the end of day.

I clench my teeth to keep from cursing, pulling off my gauntlet and sweaty leather glove to inspect my wrist. It’s red and swelling, but doesn’t feel broken. “You’re wrong.” I scowl at Karras as he comes near me.

“You think so?” He smiles at me coldly. “I think I’m right about you.” He throws down his practice sword by my feet. “That you are not the last of your line, for instance. That you were smuggled off a Fereldan boat and into the city alongside a mother and a brother. A brother surrounded by intriguing rumors.” I feel myself go pale. Karras’ smile crawls across his face, revealing a row of teeth and looking quite weaselly. He takes my arm and brings me close to him, his sour breath curling under my nostrils. “What will I find if I keep digging?” His eyes search my face and I swallow, not trusting myself to speak and somehow not betray the answer. He steps back, permitting me to go. “You have potential, Amell; let’s see if you have the sense not to squander it.”

I tuck my head and hurry past him, eager to get away from his cold stare and all the other furtive eyes on my back.

Months pass. I see little of Karras but keep my guard up. The most noticeable consequence of being rejected from the fraternity is the sharp drop in my popularity. I hardly notice the extra glares at first, since my reputation as a reformed thug already keeps social calls to a minimum. But after Georg began to avoid me, word got around that I being seen with Carver Amell is equal to holding up a sign reading _Mage Love, Not War._

I try not to let it bother me as settle into my routine as a Knight-Templar. My biggest complaint is that the work is incredibly dull. Senior templars get all the interesting assignments and leave abecedarians like myself to babysit the merchants hawking at the city gates and keep a close eye on the few mages privileged to leave the Circle Tower and walk the breadth of the Gallows. The Tranquil seem to come and go as they wish, allowed to mind themselves. I find them creepy and just ignore them.

While manning my post in the forecourt today, there isn’t anything more interesting to do but eavesdrop on some recruits clustered behind the arcade where I’m standing. I keep my back to a column so I’ll go unnoticed, then tune in to the sounds of their voices.

“Did you hear about the attack in Lowtown?” A young man is trying to whisper, but doesn’t manage well.

“Which one?” A girl asks, sounding bored.

“Qunari converts took a whole city block hostage.”

“That’s farce,” a second man interjects. “It was Chantry zealots.”

“Well someone did it. Dozens died,” the first man insists.

“When will the Viscount do something about them?” complains the girl.

“Who? The Qunari?”

“I don’t care; both. I’m sick of hearing about people being murdered in the streets. We should be doing something to help, instead of standing around with thumbs up our asses.”

I maintain a vigilant appearance by continuing to keep an eye on the main gate, but inwardly agree with the female recruit. Back in my home village, a Qunari had been captured by local templars after it murdered an entire family on their farmstead, including children. After meeting the Arishok myself, I’m more sure that Qunari are more beast than man; and beasts who glut on the blood of men should be put down.

“The Chantry is planning for war, I’m telling you, Esmond.” the second man says. “If the oxmen don’t leave we’re going to have an Exalted March on our hands.”

“Osgar!” Esmond exclaims, a shudder in his voice. “Don’t say that.”

“Makes sense,” the girl reasons. “They already have the Viscount’s son under their thumb; under much more than their thumbs, if you get my meaning.”

Esmond whines. “Sunniva, please...”

“Carver?” I startle and realize I’d been listening more intently than I should have. The tips of my ears warm with embarrassment when I notice the templar watching me from a few feet away. He has dark gray hair that pools around his neck and matching unkempt stubble. His face is heavily lined, with bags under his eyes, as if he’s spent half his life contemplating something terrible.

“Ser Emeric.” I respond with a respectful nod.

He measures me with a thoughtful look. “Congratulations on your knighthood,” He says, a familiar rasp in his voice.

I stand a little straighter. “Thank you, ser.”

Emeric glances over his shoulder. Far across the yard, Knight-Captain Cullen is stationed at the foot of the grand steps to the city gate. When Emeric looks at me again he steps closer. “Not long ago you and your brother aided my search for the missing... the murdered women. Without you, Ninette’s remains would not have been recovered. It kept me going, knowing I was right.” He pauses and furtively peers over his shoulder again. “I’ve finally found the killer but I need your help to stop him.”

“My help?” I repeat carefully, well aware that: 1) Everyone believes Emeric is crazy, which makes it true; and 2) being seen helping his crazy will only make my own ridicule worse.

He leans toward me. “There are very few people I can trust. Meredith has all but forbade me from pursuing this, but she did not say I could not seek outside help. I need you to go in my place, as a representative of authority. I have already sent a letter to your brother, and he’s agreed to assist us.”

“Stop. Stop talking.” I raise my hands imploringly and look around, hoping no one overheard.

I keep my relationship to Garrett a secret because of the ease that the Hawke name could be linked to me through him. If Meredith learns that I lied and am the son of an apostate -- the same apostate who escaped from the very Circle I’ve sworn to safeguard -- the best thing I can hope would happen is expulsion from the Order and exile from the city. And the worst scenario...

“When is this happening?” I ask, irritated that the decision to face Garrett has been stolen from me, but a little curious too as to why Garrett seemed to have agreed to do this. I could refuse, I suppose, at the risk of looking like a coward.

“You’ll meet in Hightown tonight,” Emeric says, looking perplexed by my reaction. “You’ll raid his mansion for evidence to support an arrest and conviction.”

For a moment I forget about Garrett. My jaw drops. “Mansion? You mean the killer is nobility?”

“Gascard DuPruis is a _rat_.” Emeric frowns grimly, probably thinking of the occasions the man has slipped through his fingers, only to kill again. “You must trust me on this, Carver.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to decide if I have it in me to do that. _Why can’t nobles stick to crimes of fashion and who to snub at tea parties?_ I recall Magistrate Vanard, however, and remember that the practice of using power and status to conceal heinous crimes isn't just common, it's probable. “What if one of the victims were someone you loved?” Emeric gently urges.

“You’re right,” I sigh, looking up to see Emeric’s relieved eyes gazing back at me. “I should not hesitate to do the right thing.”

“Then you’ll…?”

I nod. “Gascard will be brought to justice. Tonight.”


	7. The Long Hard Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a family reunion at the DuPruis estate. BYOB.

 My rank doesn’t permit access to lyrium stores, but Emeric makes sure I have a couple draughts with me when I leave the Gallows. I’m used to seeing the senior templar look haggard, but by nightfall he’s dead on his feet; there are deep circles under his eyes and beads of sweat on his cheeks and forehead. A templar of his tenure requires more lyrium to keep him in shape, so when he hands me two vials of lyrium, I’m certain he’s giving me of his own ration. I think it's a risky thing to do, for both of us, but I accept them without a word.

 I slip out of the Gallows before midnight and cut through Lowtown, making a stop in an alley where I won’t be spotted easily. I take one of the vials from a compartment on my belt; it illuminates the palm of my hand with the facets of a deep blue jewel. I pull off the cork and eagerly swallow the draught. I don’t anticipate having trouble with Gascard; it’s Garrett I want to be prepared for. He kicked my ass into a fucking hole the last time we were together. If he tries something similar with me again, it won't end the same way.

 When I arrive at the meeting place in Hightown’s hanging gardens, Varric Tethras is waiting for me. Somehow I’m not surprised. “You look good in a skirt, Junior,” Varric smiles, so polite it’s disingenuous.

 “It’s not a skirt,” I reply, casting glances around the deserted street. I don’t see my brother in any of the dark shadowy corners suitable for a dramatic entrance.

 “A dress, then? Oh, I got it; a sundress. Because of the… nevermind, I’ll save that for next time.”

 Next time? I hope not. “Maker, I hate you dwarf.” Varric chuckles; there're traces of warmth there, but I don’t trust it. “Where’s Garrett?” I ask, impatient. “Garrett sent you to test me, is that it? Poke at me, see if I’ll bite?”

 “That’s not Hawke’s style. I wanted to be the first one to talk to you since you never answered my letter.”

 A few months after I started training, I received a letter with the House Tethras seal. I didn’t break the wax until weeks later when curiosity got the better of me. “I don’t like writing,” I respond sourly.

 “Shocking. You didn’t throw it away, did you?”

 I didn’t, but I don’t like the tone of his voice implying that I’d be stupid if I had. “What does it matter?”

 “It’s a promissory note, kid. Legal. Binding. Contract. Big important words that guarantee your share of the expedition’s profits.” The dwarf’s patronizing attitude is infuriating. If he offered a sack of riches to me right now, I’d chuck it into the sea to spite him.

 “Keep it,” I tell him. “I’ve taken vows, one of poverty--”

 Varric waves his hand to stop me. “Sure. Just keep the letter. You might grow out of skirts someday.”

 I clench my teeth in response, and make a mental note to burn the document and mail him the ashes. “Stop wasting my time. I have a job to do.” I step around him and march up the street. He follows right along, not that I care. We’re an odd pair in Hightown, but the city guardsmen we meet on our way to DuPruis' are complacent with our presence after they see the sigil on my armor. Thankfully Varric is quiet, and I use the silence to order my thoughts.

 Shaking down Gascard DuPruis is almost secondary in my mind, as I mainly concern myself with plans to confront Garrett. I pretend everything is sunshine for mother’s benefit, but I have no intention of letting what Garrett did to me go unanswered. It might work out better to have Varric around as a credible witness when I expose my brother’s lies. My side of the story told might even get told. As it stands, most people still think I died of the blight, and the only revision making the rounds is that Garrett rescued me single-handedly from a darkspawn horde and dragged my sorry weight back to Kirkwall. Neither is flattering.

 As I practice in my mind what I’ll say to Garrett when the moment comes, I fail to notice our arrival at the DuPruis estate. “Look what I picked up,” Varric says, interrupting my thoughts. “Can we keep him?” He pulls ahead of me to approach three people lurking in the mansion doorway. They're swathed in the light of a sickle moon and I clumsily misstep when I recognize the woman next to Anders and Garrett. 

My heart stutters like a candle flame held in the wind. _Isabela!_ I don't know if the Maker is showing me kindness or spite. Both, maybe. She leans against the entryway's flagstone wall with one foot planted there behind her. Her arms are crossed, her expression conspicuously bored, yet remains as beautiful as I remember. Her eyes flick to mine when I join them by the door. I try to smile but it feels more like a grimace. “Hi,” I offer, trying to keep it short and simple so it can't be fucked up. Even by me. Would it matter? I fucked up long ago in the Deep Roads when I was an ass to her. Maybe she’s thinking about this too, I don’t know; her expression is carefully neutral.

 “Hey,” she replies.

 Awkward, but better than I deserve. Garrett finishes a whispered exchange with Varric and turns to me. “The servants have been bribed to keep silent, but let's be quick about this.” He’s brisk, like usual, but remarkably casual for the occasion. I blink when he turns away without another word. His indifference toward me is almost as shocking as seeing Isabela again had been. I bite my tongue from commenting, however, and reconsider my plans. There seems to be new dynamics at play here. It would be prudent to figure out what they are before I try to change them again with revelations about my brother.

 Garrett stands over Varric while the dwarf kneels in front of the lock, supervising his progress. This is an opportunity for me to steal a moment to talk to Isabela (maybe this awkward tension will go away if I can apologize), but Anders is staring at me. Has been this whole time. His gaze keeps darting to my breastplate, focused on the graven image of a down-turned sword winged by flames.

 “Just say it already,” I tell him, annoyed by his silent judgement.

 “Your father was a mage, as was your sister. How can you hold your head up in that armor?”

 “I don’t wear the helmet.”

 Anders isn’t amused. “Is the order everything you wished for, templar?” There’s a haughty, knowing look in his eyes, and I waver -- _Cyndal, remember Cyndal_ \-- for only a moment, and he seizes it. “Given your lineage, you must have so much to prove.”

 I restrain the urge to punch the smug off his face. “You’re free because you know my brother,” I warn him. “Don’t push it.” Isabela sighs as we bicker and that little reminder of her presence makes the tips of my ears grow hot. I glare at Anders before shouldering in front of him, just as the sounds of scraping metal end with a click, and Varric extracts his picks from the lock. Garrett pushes the polished mahogany door open and we all go in.

 When I step into the parlor my gaze naturally rises to the coffered ceiling. There’s an ugly chandelier hanging on an iron chain as thick as my torso. The room is richly furnished but a musty odor implies Gascard hasn’t entertained guests here for a very long time.

 Garrett seems to notice the same thing. “Emeric said the man’s a bachelor. What does he need a huge mansion for?”

 Varric chuckles wryly as we space out into the room. “The man’s Orlesian; their entire culture is based on overcompensating.” Isabela makes a repugnant noise when she wanders in front of a large oil painting of The Conquest of Halamshiral hung in a gaudy, gold-leaf frame. I steal glances at her when I think no one’s looking, but Anders is just as interested in keeping an eye on me. He watches me with such distrust, I find it comical.

 Garrett finds a letter desk tucked away by a wall near the fireplace. It’s buried in sheafs of paper, dusty catalogues, an oil lamp of green glass, and a stack of letters caving beneath a paperweight. Garrett squints at a piece of paper discarded on the top of a pile. He picks it up and carries it a few feet away where a sconce is burning, and angles the inscription toward the light.

 “ _'Gascard, Thank you kindly for your last shipment. It arrived in almost perfect condition. The requested payment is on its way. Please use the artifact with care. The creatures can be difficult to control, even for an experienced mage.'_ ”

 Mage. My mind snags on that word. I approach Garrett’s side and he hands the letter to me. I read it for myself.  

 “Do you think it means this?” Isabela asks, and we turn to see her reach for the paperweight I’d noticed. It’s a polished stone with glittering red veins, mounted inside an etched mold. The instant she touches it, I feel a sinister pulse of magic.

 “Stop!” Everyone exclaims.

 The Veil shudders violently. I feel something come through. Anders turns to face the fireplace, as a log pops loudly, shooting sparks up the chimney. Then the flames jump with a roar, and a Rage demon drags itself on its belly from the ash and soot, its molten eyes weeping liquid flame.

 Hack. Slash. Spell. Repeat.

 We handily defeated the demon, and I stand over its extinguished remains, just a scorch mark on the floor. I scrape at it with the toe of my boot. “Emeric was right about Gascard,” I say.

 “We don’t know that yet.” Garrett says to me. “Gascard may be a mage, but that doesn’t prove he killed anyone.”

 “He’s an apostate. It doesn’t matter if he’s innocent of other crimes.”

 Garrett glares at me. I know he has only contempt for the Circles. I’d expect that from any apostate, but I think he's become more extreme since our father's death. I vividly remember how I argued with him when he wanted to help the Starkhaven apostates evade capture. They were practicing blood magic, but Garrett didn’t care. We don’t agree on most things, but I thought Garrett had more sense than letting maleficar go free. He decision broke the trust I had in him.

 “Gascard is definitely hiding something,” Varric doesn’t put his crossbow away, cradling it in his arms instead. “And whoever sent the artifact is dangerous.” Varric looks at me. “Just a thought.”

 “I’ll mention it to Emeric,” I answer, folding the letter into a square. I tuck it into my belt, along with the artifact, which I can see now is a pendant lacking its chain. I make sure to silence its magic before picking it up. I glance at Anders, who’s been quiet. He’s examining the parlor again, looking perplexed.

 “I’m still sensing magic,” he mutters.

 “Wards?” I ask.

 “Maybe.”

 “Wards mean Gascard is here.” Garrett says. “He could have heard the fighting.”

 “Why don’t we go find out?” Isabela suggests, not bothering to look away from the tip of her dagger as she artfully vandalizes the ugly wall painting. She would probably call it an improvement, and I’d agree.

 Varric shifts his crossbow so he can scratch an itch on his cheek. “I don’t relish old cliches, but why don’t we split up and cover more ground, before Lord Stinky-cheese du Frillypants takes a backdoor?”

 “We’ve weakened the Veil,” Anders cautions. “Powerful demons could push through without help.”

 “That can happen anyway,” Garrett interjects.

 “Then we’ll use the buddy system.” Varric appeals to Hawke with a friendly smile. “Not to crawl up your ass uninvited, but if I don’t make it back to that game of Wicked Grace you dragged me from, Broody will kill me. He’s a sore loser.”

 Isabela chuckles. “I’d like to see him sore in the morning.”

 I get an idea. “I agree should split up. Demons will be attracted to Garrett and Anders, but if we divide their attention, there’s less chance of them congregating and tearing the Veil. If we work quickly, we can find Gascard or other evidence before there’s any real danger.” Anders glances at Garrett but neither refute my point. We don’t have time to argue anyway. “Anders; take Isabela or Varric, and keep a distance from Garrett. I’ll go on my own.”

 I don’t wait to see who partners with who, pretending to be focused on the job when actually I don’t want to see who Isabela pairs with, because I am pathetic. I walk straight to the west side of the mansion and let myself in through a closed door.

 Warm, damp air hit me in the face. This part of the mansion has seen less use than the parlor. It’s like a giant storage closet. There are drapes covering the windows but have been a meal for moths; fingers of moonlight stretch through its ragged holes and touch the far wall, outlining edges of sacks, crates overflowing with junk.  

 It seems impossible that Gascard could be hiding out in here, but as I wade in, I feel the Veil against my skin like a hot, humid day. It could be my heightened sensitivity, but I cautiously place my hand around the hilt of my sword as I proceed. I stop at the first door in the hallway and try the handle.  The hinges are rusted and refuse to open, even when I push my shoulder against it. The next door is blocked by a barrels and sacks of spoiled flour, blanketed with a thick layer of dust. I see it’s been undisturbed, so I moved on.

Murder investigations are less exciting than I’d hoped. My thoughts wander off track as I move from door to door, tripping on junk hiding in the shadows and flushing out rats with my footsteps. My thoughts wander back to Isabela again and again, as I contemplate why Garrett would bring her here or why she would agree to come.

 I assume Anders told Garrett what he saw between me and Isabela in the old thaig. And Garrett would predictably respond. He’s not very creative, but he’d at least try to deprive me of her company. I don’t know if they’re still together (Maker I hope not!) but it wouldn’t quelch his possessive assholery. I think I have Garrett figured out by now, but Isabela? I’ve never been able to guess what she’s thinking, but since we haven’t spoke since the disastrous expedition, I also assumed Isabela wants nothing to do with me.

 That can still be true.

 This night just keeps getting better, I think glumly as I come to the last room. The door needs persuading, so I ram from my shoulder against it. Rusted hinges make a shrill, squeaking sound as I work the door open wide enough for me to squeeze through. The windows here are uncovered and I can clearly see the room is conspicuously tidy. There’s a modest four-poster bed covered in moldy blankets and a desk and wardrobe in the corners of the room. I cross to a rug, it's faded colors now a grey indistinguishable from the tile floor. I still sense the closeness of the Fade, patterned like hungry eyes and mouths pressed to the Veil, watching. Mages are not the only ones at risk for possession; after word got around that Wilmond became an abomination, no one can feel safe.

 Guardedly I turn from the bed to leave, something in the doorway blocks the way out. My sword is out a moment later. Before I attack, the silhouette steps inside a wedge of milky light cast through a window. Isabela smiles when she sees the sword. “If you’re planning to stick me, I could come up with a more enjoyable method.”

 I relax a tiny bit and slide the sword back into its sheath. “Did you find Gascard?” I ask to distract myself from her comment.

 She comes closer and I try to keep my gaze on her face. The sway of her hips sorely tempt my gaze to wander down her curves; a woman doesn't walk like that without a purpose in mind. “I don’t know,” she answers, every word teased by her low, sultry tone. “I don’t care; I had to get away from the others and see you.” I almost step back when she joins me in the shadow of the bed, her large dark eyes never relinquishing my own, and my heartbeat quickens. “I want you. And I want to be yours. Only yours.” Isabela nervously worries her lower lip. “Please tell me you haven’t changed your mind about me.”

 There’s a painful swell in my chest, like I’ve forgotten to breathe. I force myself to keep my hands at my sides and not reach for her. “Don’t speak like that; I’m unworthy.” My throat tightens. “Please, listen... I, I want you to know something.” I strain to keep my voice steady and glance away, self-consciously brushing my fingers through my hair. She reaches out to touch the long half-curls after they fall back into place. I flinch when the back of her hand brushes against my temple, and reach to take her hand in mine. “I need to tell you… I’m sorry. For how I treated you. I was hurt...and you warned me, warned me and I wouldn’t listen. I was awful, and I’ve regretted it every day since.” I swallow again, but the knot in my throat tightens its hold. “I’m in love with you.”

She tugs her arm in my grasp, pulling me close. “Then make love to me,” she says tenderly. In the darkness between us her other hand parts my robe, then brush against the leg of my trousers. Her fingers tease trace the shape of my burgeoning erection, and I unthinkingly push my hips forward. She leans against me, the heat of her body swallowed by my breastplate. She's so close, I feel her breath beat against my mouth. Soft, warm pants that fray my control. “Carver?”

 “Yes,” I whisper, releasing her wrist. Her hands move to deftly loosen the restraints on my armor while I stand there stupedfied. When the weight comes off my shoulders, I'm filled with fear. “Shh, Carver,” Isabela tries to soothe me as I begin to tremble beneath her fingers. “Oh, pet, this is real. Just you and me.” She rises on her toes to plant a kiss at the corner of my mouth, feathery light, and trail more kisses across my lips, until I feel reassured this isn't another cruel joke. “Sorry,” I try to murmur, but the instant I open my mouth she kisses me, _really_ kisses me. It’s fierce and demanding. I surrender to it. Minutely, she breaks away from me with her lush lips glistening and unknots the scarf around her hips. I fumble with my robe, clumsy with the ties, unable to take my eyes off of hers. Her smile is enigmatic but full of promise, and my cock is so hard and swollen by the time I try to take off my pants, that it’s an issue getting one untangled from the other.

 Isabela drops her boots next to mine and stands naked for me, a black patch between her legs, her lusty curves begging to be used and bruised and worshipped. I scoop her up and toss her to the bed, my gut clenching with mad desire as I watch her breasts bounce. I grab her ankles and roughly pull her to me, aligning her hips with the edge of the bed. I throw her knees against my shoulders and, bearing her ass upward, bury my mouth and tongue against her soft, ambrosial flesh. Isabela writhes against the bed, her whimpers and moans making my balls tighten with arousal. “Carver, oh, yes--” I flick my tongue against the nub and she bites down on her lip, shuddering. “Isn’t this wonderful, pet? Everything will be this good from now on.”

 I pull back, brushing the back of my hand across my mouth. “I haven’t got to the good part yet,” I smile, then turn my head to kiss the inside of her knee. I lean my knees on the bed so I can arrange her legs to drape over my thighs. I grip the base of my cock and guide it between the folds of her sex, brushing the tip of the head against her slit. I pause there, timid. “I’m… Isabela, I’m… not…I mean, I haven’t...”

 “I’ll take care of you.”

 I nod and shakily switch positions with her. When I lay back, she eagerly swings her leg over my lap and sits on me. My cock fits perfectly between the lips of her womanhood, wrapping me like a hot, wet hand. I’m not inside her, but as she begins to rock her hips, sliding back and forth on my shaft, I can’t imagine feeling any better if I were. Pushing my head back into the bed, I groan loud and long, digging my hands into her thighs until my fingers dent her supple flesh with bruises.

 “You’re so good, so powerful,” Isabela says huskily, enjoying the sight of me squirming under her, eyes burning in the dark.  “We were made for each other. Our union is only the beginning. I can give you more than mindless pleasure. We can have everything you ever wanted.” I cry out as she tugs on my balls, kneading them, drawing out the tension coiled in my gut. Her words wrap my head in a fog. “You would make such a handsome Knight-Commander… no, Viscount… You’ll never again suffer being second best.”

 I’m panting with ragged breaths that saw at my throat. Everything is pressing too close, hazy and smothering. Even Isabela’s words begin to feel palpable, irresistibly pushing into me while pushing something out. I try to hold on to that something, but my will is weak, and I can only stare dully up at Isabela and her magnificent breasts while she coaxes rope after rope of hot seed from my cock. Each spurt feels like another piece of that something is being taken out of me too. As the pool of come begins to cool on my stomach, Isabela smiles wickedly.

 A deep, reverberating voice booms inside the room. “ **Begone, demon!** ” 

 For a moment that stretches across my eyes with agonizing clarity, I watch blue licks of ephemeral flame tease the edges of her skin, beautiful and ghastly. I watch Isabela’s face crack and flake like ashes, and she stares at me, trapped in the same moment, that mischievous smirk filling me with sorrow. Then a brilliant flash forces me to look away, and the roar of a blue bonfire tears at the air. When I open my eyes, there are scorch marks on the ceiling. I realize the black smudge is all that remains of the Desire demon.

 Slowly I sit up and pull myself to the edge of the bed. I lean forward, sagging heavily. My cock is already flagging; my balls will probably have a beastly ache in them by tomorrow. When I rub the sweat from my eyes, I don’t know what to feel about what just happened. I’m a templar who allowed myself to be seduced by a demon.

 “Do you need healing?” Anders asks quietly, and I think he must sense how I’m feeling and I hate that. I hate him. I look up and glare to make sure he knows it. I know he couldn't be a demon too because there's nothing I could possibly want from him.  

 “I’ll be fine.” Which is true once I take a lyrium draught. I'm only fatigued from depletion, no serious harm done. If it had continued, though... I'm sure the demon would have drained the rest of me after my balls were used up. Not the worst way to go.

 Anders sighs at me. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Carver. Be happy it was only your cock the demon wanted, and not the whole package.”

 “I’m not embarrassed,” I say with vexation, and stand up from the bed. I face him unabashedly naked. He looks away first, cursing, cheeks stained pink. I begin to dress, feeling a little better from cowing the mage; never thought being scrubbed of modesty could be empowering. “What are you doing here?” I demand, tugging my trousers up to my hips.  

 “We found something you should see,” Anders says with his back to me, silly feather pauldrons making him look like an enormous fluffed owl. “Come upstairs when you’re ready.” I don’t answer, hoping he’ll just leave, but he stops in the doorway. I’m lacing my boots and don’t look up when he speaks. “Carver, about what happened--"

"No," I say firmly.

"You're not going to let me apologize?" I don't answer. He continues to stand there, even after I've got my armor back on and busy myself tightening the bindings."We searched for you. When we didn't find you, we weren't left with options."

"Leave it be." I warn him. "This is between me and my brother."

"And Isabela."

"Stay out of my business, mage."

"You love her. Don't trouble yourself denying it; Hawke won't hear it from me. You must have figured that out by now? " 

"What do you want, Anders?" 

A sad smile touches his tired mouth. "I want to see you and the pirate queen sail off into the sunset." He leaves after that, while I stare at a wall in confusion. Anders, trying to help me? Ha. Unlikely. And yet, if I consider what the mage stands to gain... When I have it figured, I just have to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Divergent Canon: It felt illogical to me (in-game) that the city guard raided the DuPruis place and found nothing incriminating, but Hawke walks knee-deep through damning evidence. So in this story, a raid by the city guards hasn't taken place to discredit Emeric, but he has been instructed by Meredith to find himself a new hobby.


	8. Shadow on the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver is determined to arrest Gascard. But then Hawke happens.

 Once I join the others upstairs, Garrett hands me another of Gascard’s letters:

Messere _DuPuis,_

 _This is in regards to your inquiry into missing_ mages _. I would like to remind you that the duty of seeking out missing_ mages, _if there were any to begin with, would fall to the templars of Starkhaven, not a minor noble from Kirkwall._

 The corners of my mouth twitch as I resist smirking at the letter’s dry tone.

 _I would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that the Circle of Magi, as a whole, does not welcome casual inquiries about the_ mages _in its care._

 “It’s signed by First Enchanter Raddick.” That part causes me to slightly frown at the paper. “This must be from when Starkhaven’s Circle disbanded.”

 “Maybe Gascard was looking for help from another mage,” Varric muses.

 Isabela feigns a yawn. “What missing mages?” She’s sitting on top of a dining table long enough to seat twenty, idly swinging one foot a few inches above the floor.

 I pretend to examine the letter while I answer, not trusting myself to look in her eyes. Disgust and guilt linger in me from my encounter with the Desire demon and I don’t want her to get a whiff.

“They weren’t missing exactly; they ran from their handlers while being transported to Kirkwall.”

 “Their Circle burned to the ground,” Garrett tells her, flicking a haughty glance my way. “So tragic.”

 I fold the letter and put it with the other evidence on my belt. “Oh, yes, but things really improved for them when you released them into the wilds. Allowing the acolytes of a maleficar to run free? Not your shining moment, Brother.”

 “The templars would have cut them all down, for the actions of one demented man,” Anders interjects. It’s the first he’s spoken since we were together downstairs.

 I offer Anders a thin smile. “Ironic, that it’s your help that’s condemned them.” Then I look at Garrett. “They got about as far as your foresight on the matter and were captured again. Three were hanged to be made an example. If they had returned willingly, no one needed to die.”

 A discharge of electricity from Garrett’s staff makes the hair on my arms and back of my neck stand up. Varric and Isabela share an uncomfortable look. The dwarf’s chest hair is rigid like a porcupine's quills.

 “What does any of this have to do with the murders?” Isabela exclaims with exasperation. “Put your damn cocks away.”

 She’s right. However, I back down carefully, hanging on to Garrett’s eyes even after I shift my weight away and shrug. “One of Emeric’s missing women was a mage named Mharen,” I speak conversationally. “But she was from Kirkwall, not an apostate. When I get back to the Gallows I could do some research, find out which Starkhaven apostates are unaccounted for.”

 “If Gascard was a pupil of Decimus, you can tie the loose ends into a pretty bow for your Knight-Commander,” Anders says.

 I reply with a rude gesture.

 Varric sticks his thumb at the door leading out from the room. “DuPuis can save you the paperwork, Junior. If we find him.”

 That serves well enough as the cue to get moving, but when Garrett brushes by Anders, the warden gets a brilliant shock from the charge built up in Garrett’s staff. Anders yelps as several feathers on his coat burst into flame. We all help in slapping the fire out, even after Anders yells for us to stop.

“Sorry about that,” Garrett says, sounding sheepish.

With a sulky frown, Anders nurses his shoulder, muttering that it’s bruised as well as singed.

 We manage to leave the dining room without another incident, through use of a servant’s passage. It’s conspicuously sized for elves, and we funnel through the narrow corridor. We let out into the wing of master suites.

 “Feel that…?” Anders murmurs, purposefully striding down the hall.

I work to catch up to him before he lays his hand on the door at the end of the hall. “Wait,” I order him, stepping between him and the door. I already have my sword in my other hand. “I should be first.”

He rolls his eyes. I ignore him as I open the door. It’s utterly dark inside. Anders reaches over my shoulder with his staff, swirls of pale green light emanating from its topper. I see the room’s windows have been shuttered.

  _Well someone wants their privacy._

 I move toward large desk in the corner, covered in stacked tomes and experimental equipment. There are glass flasks and racks of slender vials that catch the light, glinting. My mouth feels like cotton when I get close enough to see some vials are filled with dark fluid. There’s a coppery smell in the air, and traces of burned ozone.

 Across the room, Varric has popped open a locked chest. “I thought DuPruis lives by himself,” he says, rummaging inside the chest. “What’s he doing with women's clothing?”

 “I knew a man who liked to dress in his wife’s clothes,” Isabela says with a grin, holding up a pair of silk underoos with gaudy lace trappings. “You should bundle your bits with silk at least once; you don’t know what you’re missing.”

 “Those things could belong to the missing women,” Anders points out.

 I’m half-listening as I reach for a rack of vials. They reek of blood. Only one appears viable; a vibrant red. When I touch it, a wave of revulsion passes through me.

 “Hmm, blood magic.” Ironically Anders seems to read my mind. “Someone’s been naughty.”

 He watches me tuck the vial of blood into my belt. I doubt I’ll require more convincing evidence than this that Gascard is a dangerous apostate, if not the killer Emeric suspects.

 Isabela dangles the ridiculous silk panties in front of me when I approach her and the others standing around the chest, trying to persuade me to collect it as evidence. She’s having entirely too much fun. “Can you please be serious?” I say.

 “Can you not for once?” She easily responds. I stiffen uncomfortably at the remark.

_Was that on purpose?_

I turn and walk out into the hall, leaving her with the panties in her hand and an eyebrow arched at my back. Just a few moments later, the sound of a woman wailing arises from the other end of the hall. I run toward it.

 “You’re mad!” A woman shrieks. “Stop! You’re hurting me!”

 I dispense with courtesy and kick the door in. There’s a man near the center of the bedroom, gripping the wrist of an older woman who has swooned to the floor. Both of them look up in shock as chunks of the door’s wood frame skitter across the floor.   

 “Let her go!”

 Isabela is first to point a blade at the man; tall, dressed in silk and a velvet, with braids in his hair I'd expect to see on a girl. He’s early into his thirties, with hair to his shoulders the color of ripe wheat. Isabela steps forward and Gascard quickly backs up, letting go of his captive.

"Gascard duPuis," I say, certain of it.

 

 When the woman’s arm is free, she scrambles to her feet and throws herself at Isabela. “Help me!” she sobs.  Isabela embraces her, looking astonished, and taps her on the back in what I think is meant to be consolation.

  “Shit,” Gascard holds up his hands, “I know what this looks like, but--let me explain--”

 “Explain it to the Knight-Commander,” I bark at him.

 His eyes round when I step toward him and he gets a clearer look at the sigil on my armor.

 “Please, serah, you don’t understand. Someone is after her! I was trying to protect her!”

 “Liar,” the lady wails, lifting her tear-streaked face from Isabela’s shoulder. “He tried to kill me!”

 Gascard’s eyes flash with indignant anger. “Shut up, foolish woman. I explained before. I took your blood so I could track you if the killer takes you.”

That explains the vial I found, and the perverted magic I sensed. He must have rigged it to perform like a traditional phylactery would.

 “You admit you’re a blood mage?” I take another step forward and Gascard jumps back, banging his shoulder on one of the bed posts.

 “This is madness!” He exclaims. “We are both being played!”

 Someone grabs my arm, stopping me. Guess who.

 “Let him explain,” Garrett roughly tells me. “We’re here to learn about the killer.”

 I gape at him. “And you’d believe him? After everything we’ve seen tonight?”

 “I’ve got an ear for extravagant tales,” Varric comments. “And I want to hear him try to talk himself out of this.”

 “You boys have fun,” Isabela says, trying to pry the hysterical noblewoman from her waist. “I’m taking this sad mess home.” She props up the woman's shoulder and half-carries her out the door. “You know where to find me.”

 From the corner of my eye, it seems like she’s looking at me, but then Garrett grunts and suddenly I’m even more angry with him. I wrench my arm free from his grasp and sneer. “Then by all means, let’s hear what the blood mage has to say in his defense.”

 “T-Thank you,” Gascard’s gaze follows my sword as I lower it to my side. “As I was… saying… I swear to you that I am not the killer. I’ve been hunting for the true killer for years. After he murdered my sister…”

 Blah blah blah. I don’t bother listening to the details.

 “I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” Gascard finally finishes, “but I had to. He took my sister.”

 “Ser Emeric was so sure you were the killer,” Garrett admits. “Why not work with him?”

 The nobleman scoffs. “This isn’t about justice, a concept I doubt a templar and mage will agree on.” He affords me a slight glance. “Besides, I need to be the one to bleed him dry.”

 Garrett shares in that glance, and I feel my gut instinctively clench. “Garrett…” I warn.

 “Time for you to vanish,” my brother tells Gascard. “Emeric will still be looking for you.”

 “No!” I shout angrily, stepping between Gascard and my brother.

 “He’s not the killer, Carver.”

 “No, he’s a fucking blood mage!” I catch Gascard in the corner of my eye edging toward the bedroom’s small balcony overlooking a small garden. My steel flashes as I warn him off with my sword. “And I uphold the tenets of the order now.”

 “I know a place you can ‘uphold’ them,” Anders mutters for me to hear, causing me to glance his way.

 That’s all it takes; a moment's distraction. As soon as my eyes leave Gascard, he rushes to the balcony. _Oh come on!_ I immediately give chase, planning to snatch him by the collar before he can swing himself over the banister, but something strikes my side and I fall against a wall. I push myself up and get to my feet, so furious that I’m heaving for breath. Garrett still has his staff aimed at me when I look up.

 The next thing I know, a searing light envelopes me. The air vibrates in my ears so powerfully I open my mouth to scream, just to release the anger and sadness bursting my chest. When the room comes back into focus, I see Garrett on the floor. I stagger into the wall, feeling like a puddle suddenly scorched from the earth. The realization comes slowly that I had expulsed the lyrium in my blood.

 “Hawke,” Anders cries, cupping the sides of Garrett’s face, smoothing back his hair, whispering it’ll be okay.

 I never thought Anders could be such a capable liar. I push away from the wall, sword dangling harmlessly in my grip, and Varric steps between them and me.

 “Get out of here, kid.” The dwarf says sadly. “While you still can.”

 Numbly, I take his advice.

 I find myself in front of the old Amell estate, knocking on the door. Bodahn answers, wearing a nightgown and cap. “Young sir!” He actually sounds delighted to see me. I allow myself to be ushered into the foyer, insisting I wait there while the dwarf fetches my mother. It's awkward to see my mother’s girlhood home, knowing that I rejected it, and once begrudged her of wanting it. She deserves this, if it makes her happy. Maybe Father wouldn't mind that after everything he did to free them, she chose to come back.

 “Darling?” Mother’s soft voice carries through the next room. “Are you alright?” She comes through the archway, tying her robe.

 “Yes, of course,” I say gently.

 “What is it?” Worried lines crease her mouth and streak her forehead, and I regret waking her.

 “I... just wanted to see you. Let you know… that I… will be very busy for a while.”

 She relaxes. “Is that good news?”

 “I think so. Goodnight, mother.” I lean down and kiss the top of her head.

 She smiles, although not every line is smoothed from her face. “Funny boy,” She says, following me to the door, and clutches the neck of her robe closed with a thin hand after the door opens with a rush of cool night air. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Proud of you.”

 

-+-

 

 Emeric isn’t in the forecourt when I arrive, but Knight-Captain Cullen is. “Oh shit,” I say.

 He nods agreeably. “Indeed.”

 He motions for me to approach, and I do so with brisk, disciplined strides and straightened shoulders, even though I feel so exhausted I’d rather be crawling. But you don’t make an officer wait, and crawling is undignified. Cullen’s gaze is heavy on me, and I immediately feel two things very strongly: 1) like shit, because I respect the Captain and this must disappoint him; and 2) like an idiot, for getting caught.

 Cullen takes a breath, sounding tired. “The Knight-Commander--” _Oh, shit_ “--will speak with you, Ser Amell. I will escort you.”

 I don’t argue or question him because the trouble I’m in is up to my neck already. I defer to him with a nod and proceed to follow him across the forecourt. While we wait at the Gallows entrance for the portcullis to be raised, I try not to think about what’s going to happen to me. It’s as useful as contemplating how sharp the ax is before it falls on your neck.

 Cullen pauses before we enter the commander’s office and actually brushes my hair back with his hands, tucking strands behind my ears, and then rubs his thumb against a smudge on my pauldron until he’s satisfied with the resulting shine. He gives me a solemn nod, then opens the door to the office. “Knight-Commander; Ser Amell has arrived.”

 The edge of my ears blush with shame when Meredith looks up from her desk, piercing me with her icy blue eyes. She isn’t wearing the commander armor over her heavy surcoat with paneled scalemail, but she looks just as intimidating without it. “Thank you, Cullen.” She doesn’t even glance at her captain. “You may leave us.”

 I feel a nudge at my back. I try to remember how legs work as I awkwardly scoot past Cullen and stand inside the office. The door shuts, leaving me standing alone on the other side of the commander’s desk. She smiles politely. It looks as natural on her face as a portrait slashed on the mouth by a knife. “Carver,” she begins, and I’ve never been so averse to the sound of my own name, “It’s unfortunate for us to meet like this so soon after your knighting.”

 “I’m sorry, commander--” I blurt, but she goes on as if I haven’t spoken.

 “But this isn’t the first time your name has crossed my desk.” She flicks her eyes down at the paper she’s been scrawling on, and I have a few moments reprieve from her unnerving stare. She moves the tip of the quill over a bottle of ink and pricks its surface with a single, sharp jab. “I sense you are struggling with your duty; is this so?”

 “Um… no, commander, I don’t… think...”

 Her lips part slightly with the impression of a sigh. “I understand the frustration of being a young knight. Watch duty is hardly fulfilling work.” She looks up, pinning me again with her eyes. “Why are you a templar, Carver?”

 The question catches me completely off-guard. I have to make an effort not to rub the side of my head like I do when I'm nervous. "This is my home, my family's home. I want to protect them.” I trail off, trying to blink away the burn in my eyes when I think of Garrett, how I smote him and left him. It was an accident, I tell myself, yet deep down I wanted it. I wanted to hurt him like he hurt me.

 Meredith watches me intently for a very long minute. “And how best can you accomplish this?” She finally says.

 “By serving the order, ma’am.”

 “Do you think defying me serves the order?”

 “Ser Emeric--”

 “I’m aware of Emeric’s feelings,” Meredith cuts me off. “He expresses them constantly.” I look down at my boots, see a smudge of soot on a sabaton. If Cullen had seen it, it might have swooned. Meredith does sigh this time. “You won’t receive punishment for what you did at an officer’s behest. Emeric confessed he gave you no choice in the matter.”

 “He did?” I look up, not sure I heard right, but the commander is busy writing, the feather in her hand twitching.

  “Yes. I’d admire his forthrightness if he didn't use it so often to vex me.” Finished with her composition, Meredith puts her quill aside. “Ser Emeric has become an embarrassment to the order. I had approved a supplement of lyrium to curb his delusions, yet after this… A man in his state should be retired to a Chantry.” She shakes her head and her pale blond hair sways against her neck.

  I shift uneasily when I understand that Emeric has accepted all the blame, and if I nod along and let it happen, then it’ll be on my conscious when he gets shipped off to some hole in the wall Chantry to live out his days lyrium-addled. “Ma’am -- I mean, Knight-Commander -- Ser Emeric was right about Gascard DuPuis. I think he did murder the women.” She frowns, dissatisfied with my response. “And he’s a blood mage!”

 “Outrageous.” Meredith’s face hardens skeptically.

 “I brought proof,” I insist, digging out the evidence I collected. After littering her desk with letters, a dingy glass vial red with blood, and the clunky pendant, I step back and watch her carefully read both letters at length, repeatedly. I remain at attention, even when my bad leg starts aching like the Void. “The artifact summons demons,” I mention when she picks up the red-veined stone.

 “You fought demons?” Her tone is casual, almost absent of interest, and she doesn’t even glance up. Then she picks up the vial of blood, turning it around in her hands. She must sense the dormant spell that’s been cast on it, and can probably read into it far better than me.

 “Yes,” I can’t help but feel proud of the accomplishment, and a little taxed that she doesn’t seem the least impressed. “It was only a Rage demon. It gave me no trouble.” She looks up and narrows her eyes at me, warning me off my cocksure tone. I pretend to clear my throat so I can escape her eyes, a blush creeping up my neck.

 Minutely, Meredith puts the items aside. “Compelling evidence,” she admits, though her tone holds no compunction for her criticism of Emeric. “Unfortunately, Emeric believed he was after a common killer, not maleficarum, and Gascard has made a strong case of unjust persecution. He is now under the Guard-Captain’s protection.”

 “We have proof,” I beseech her.

 “We have stolen property wrongfully taken from a nobleman’s home.”

 “Gascard confessed! I fought a damn demon!”

 “You are a boy barely weaned from training. You have no credibility. And that would only be at the top of a list detailing your unsuitability. As for Ser Emeric, the man has already distinguished himself to the guard as a deluded eccentric.”

 “T-There was a woman! That’s her blood. Gascard kidnaped her.”

 “Would you gamble the integrity of the order on the testimony of one hysterical noblewoman?”

 I lower my eyes in response.

 “Who is she? What became of her?” Meredith prompts me.

 “I don’t know.” I answer sullenly, thinking of all the trouble I went through to get to Gascard, only to watch him slip away now.

  He reminds me of Garrett, proud and arrogant, believing he’s the exception to every rule, above reproach. After what happened, I can’t abide it. I can’t. If I can’t bring one apostate to justice, how can I protect a city? How can I look at myself and not see a wasted life? A father’s disappointment, staring back?

 I feel so weighed down by this defeat that I drop onto the velveteen chair angled in front of the desk without permission. “So that’s it?” I say, my voice shaded with reproach. “But… what about…” I scrub a hand over my face in frustration. “You’re the Knight-Commander! And he’s a bloody maleficar. He’s ours to take!”

 Meredith watches me with interest. “And what would you do with him?”

 I don’t flinch from her icy blue eyes this time. “My duty.”

 After several moments she makes an agreeable sound behind her lips, then she folds the letter she’s written. I sit quietly and observe, listening to passing footsteps occasionally scrape the stone outside the door, while she holds a stick of wax over a candle flame until it dribbles, and then dabs a puddle of wax onto the paper before pressing her seal into it. When she stands, I jump to my feet and step back toward the door.

 Meredith comes around her desk, letter in hand. I bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from looking at the shape of her body, hugged by her surcoat. I think I made a mistake comparing her to my mother. “You will deliver this to Emeric,” she informs me, handing me the letter. “Then assume your usual duties. At the eleventh bell, if your conviction has not wavered, then go the chapel. I will send one of my best Hunters to meet you.”

 My eyes widen. “Yes, ma’am.”

 She returns to her desk, but I’m so distracted by her shifting hips and the intriguing prospect of what the Knight-Commander must look like naked, I hang by the door. Meredith arches an eyebrow at me as she takes her seat. “You are dismissed, Carver.”

 

-+-

 

 I find Emeric in the officer wing. He’s sitting with his philter in his lap, gripping the corners of the case, with his unfocused eyes pointed to a wall. When he finally notices me standing in his doorway, a veil of sadness lifts from his haunted eyes, and when he looks at me my stomach knots.

“I heard you returned,” he says eagerly, getting to his feet. “Has Meredith called for Gascard’s arrest?”

 I don’t know what to say. I think Meredith is punishing me, in her way; making me do this to Emeric, after I helped him. It’s cruel to both of us. Cruel and effective.

 I hand him the letter and to his credit he hesitates only a moment before accepting it. He studies the seal for a long time. “Ah, thank you.”

 He moves back to the bed and sits down again, holding the paper inside his fist. I linger in the doorway, but as he returns to gazing forlornly at the wall, I shut the door behind me without another word.

-+-

 

 It’s evening in the Gallows. I’ve been on watch duty all day. I’m exhausted. But I have no intention of ignoring Meredith’s command, even if it should deprive me of sleep. _Maybe I could take my daily draught a little early_ , I think, and my palms itch in response.

 Pondering what tonight might bring is enough to keep my mind alert. I gathered as much from the commander that going after Gascard again is a dangerous mission. Not simply because he is a blood mage, but because it could upset whatever political domino Gascard has arranged to protect himself. And I am hopeful that if I succeed in bringing in this blood mage, Meredith will acknowledge I have what it takes to be more than a glorified babysitter.

 I lean against one of the massive pillars flanking the open gate to the Gallows dock, trying not to look too relaxed as I watch the vendors in their shabby stalls begin to pack up for the day. As usually when it's deadly dull, I eavesdrop on the recruits.

 “Did you hear about Ser Varnell?” Osgar tries to whisper, poorly.

 “Sure did,” Sunniva replies, “Good on him.”

 “I heard they were Qunari delegates,” Esmond says, with a squeak of fear. “Isn’t that… shouldn’t we be worried?”

 “Why?” Sunniva seems to bristle. “There are far more of us than them. They should worry about their damn boat showing up before we toss them to the sea.”

 “Oh Maker,” Esmond moans.

 Sunniva huffs. “Don’t cry. I’ll protect you.”

 “Overheard one of the keep’s stewards in the Hanged Man today,” Osgar says. “Viscount’s boy hasn’t been seen in days. You don’t think...”

 The only thing that surprises me these days is that people talk about Qunari far more than magi. I guess a foreign army sitting on your doorstep offers a new perspective on old problems. Whatever. I’m just glad fighting those heathen beasts isn’t in my job description.

 As the bright orange sun hangs over the bay’s slate waters, the hourly bell clangs throughout the almost-empty forecourt. “That’s first supper,” the female recruit says, as she and the two male recruits leave toward the barracks, their chatter echoing off stone.

 There are shifts to eat as well as to work and rest, and I must wait until third supper to take my meal. My body is gnawed by a hungry ache, but it isn’t food I crave, but lyrium. It’s been a constant in my thoughts since the morning, and it’s what I think about while I help other watchers lower the massive iron gate to the Gallows harbor. When I do manage to get into the bustling hall, I barely taste the food, and when I return to the barracks, I choose my philter instead of sleep. Once the refreshing burn leaves my throat, I feel awake as day.

 When I arrive at the chapel, Mother Bernadette lets me know there’s someone waiting for me in one of the alcoves. Sure enough, a templar in full regalia is there to greet me, with a longsword on their belt and a shield on their back, with entirely too many teeth showing in an unpleasant grin.

 “You’re the Hunter?” I ask weakly.

 “Lucky you,” Karras replies.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characteristically Canon: Hawke sided with Petrice and Varnell against the Qunari, if you wondered.


	9. Say Your Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for Gascard DuPuis forces Carver and Karras to work together until things go off the rails. Naturally.

  “Ugh, it smells like Genlock balls down here.”

 I cough into my hand and taste the fetid air when I open my mouth. Water as thick as soup sloshes around our ankles. I’m glad I got to keep my sturdy boots from when Karras instructed we change our clothes at the chapel. The Knight-Commander can’t condemn our actions if we’re caught breaking the law in our stylish templar armor, you know. I was provided a ratty jerkin (seriously, it looks like it’s been gnawed by rats) to go with my trousers and tunic. Karras wanted everything left behind but our weapons and the vial of the noblewoman’s blood.

 “We’re in a sewer,” Karras replies tersely, with a cough.

 I fish out the phylactery on its chain from beneath my collar. After I gave the vial to Meredith, it was set inside a special pendant like a proper Circle phylactery. A red glow still envelopes the vial, it’s insidious light tinting my bare hand a rosy color. “Maybe I’m using this wrong,” I admit, then cough again. I keep the back of my hand on my lips to stifle the sewer’s stench. “I just wonder if crawling under Lowtown is the right place to be looking for a noblewoman.”

 “That depends on the condition of the woman.”  

 I inwardly shudder, though it might be the damp air that makes my skin creep. When the sewer dumps us into Darktown, there’s certain to be plenty of un-hypothetical corpses. The coterie -- and a fair share of lazy undertakers -- treat the whole undercity like their personal midden heap.

 Karras skirts a sideways glance at me. “All you’re required to do is watch the phylactery. How is it your incompetence hasn’t yet killed you?”

 “I’ve used a phylactery before,” I answer defensively.

 “You must speak of Ser Herrick’s ridiculous notion of training recruits.” Karras makes an exasperated noise. “I’ve asked Meredith not to humor the imbecile. Playing hide and seek in the Circle is no way to prepare a templar for hunting Maleficarum.”

 I can’t stop the laugh that comes out. “Maker! I think we agree on something.” I let the pendant rest against my chest. “The phylactery Ser Herrick gave me belonged to a senior mage. It took less than an hour to find her hiding in her own bedroom. She was waiting on the bed, wearing nothing but an enchanter cap!” I laugh again, this time at Karras’ expression. I imagine the man doesn’t attract conversation that isn’t always _doom this_ and _kill that_. “First time I've run from a mage that wasn’t trying to light me on fire,” I add wryly.

 The corner of Karras’ mouth twitches before he turns his face away. “Foolish...” He mutters under his breath.

 Ahead of us is a sewer grate with shafts of moonlight streaking between its rusted iron bars. There’s a din of voices and drunken carousing coming from the street above. “I wonder if we’re near the Hanged Man,” I say, then sigh. “Is it possible to miss something you hated when you had it?”

 “Odd question.”

 “I’m entitled to be odd, remember.”

 He makes that scoffy-grunt noise again and I’m starting to suspect is supposed to be a laugh. I quicken my step to catch up with Karras’ stride after we pass under the grate. I may be guiding us with the phylactery, but there’s no confusion in my mind which of us is the leader.

 I fiddle with the pendant again. “My brother… He used to drag me to the Hanged Man all the bloody time. He loves it. He can fit in anywhere. I just felt like a piece of furniture. But sometimes I miss the noise. The Gallows is so quiet.”

 Karras doesn’t respond. I wonder if Karras was as dismayed as I was when Meredith paired us together to hunt down Gascard DuPuis. As we continue in silence, the sounds from the street above fade into the darkness behind us. After a while, Karras surprises me when he speaks. “I’m told you took down the maleficar’s pet demon.”

 “Right.” I answer carefully. “What of it?”

 He flicks his gaze at me. “How’d you manage it?”

 “I hit it with my sword.”

 He grunts. “You joke, but it cannot have been a simple feat.”

 “Is that a compliment?”

 “Absolutely not.”

 We arrive at the next juncture of passageways and I consult the phylactery. I’ve already led us into a couple dead ends, but Karras is persuasive that I navigate.

 “By all means, let’s not waste more of your time, and return you to the Gallows so you can continue an illustrious career staring at walls.”

 “Bloody flames,” I complain. “Are you always so intense?”

 I don’t want to confide in Karras that I feel sick with guilt that as I fumble in the dark, Gascard could kill an innocent woman, and that it’s probably my fault she never made it home that night. As soon as our search steered us from Hightown, I knew in my gut that Gascard got to his victim before we could.

 “Why would Gascard bring her to Darktown?” I venture to ask after a while. A rat scurries past and disappears through a crack in the tunnel’s stone wall.

 “He knows he’s being watched by templars and the city guard,” Karras says matter of fact. “He’ll go somewhere to perform his blood rituals where he thinks we won’t find him.”

 “I suppose,” I say, but I don’t share his confidence. “It just seems careless. You’d think he’d lay low for awhile.”

 “Being backed by the Guard-Captain has made him bold. Foolish woman. An ignorant foreigner has no right to meddle in templar affairs; she prefers to appease the nobles by sweeping a blood mage under the carpet.”

 “Ave--um, the Guard-Captain probably had no choice. Even the commander said--”

 Karras stops me with a derisive snort. “Ah, Fereldans. Thick as flies on shit, aren’t you?”

 This irks me. “Yet here I am, crawling through shit in defiance of the Guard-Captain. That isn’t enough?” He stalks ahead faster, distancing himself from me. Determined, I keep up with him. “It doesn’t matter. What we should be questioning is if stopping Gascard will stop the murders.”

 “Amell, the only thing that matters is stopping this maleficar.”

 I shake my head, even though Karras isn’t looking my way. “Gascard spoke of another blood mage that’s responsible for the murders Emeric was investigating. He said he was keeping the woman safe to lure the real killer out.”

 “How convenient for him,” Karras scoffs.

 I frown, trying to manage my mounting frustration to be heard. “I found letters. Evidence that suggests he’s looking for someone, a mage. I think there’s a connection.”

“I suppose if he sprinkled crumbs around the body, you’d conclude the baker did it. Amell, you are helping in fooling yourself.”

 I make a frustrated noise. Maker, the man makes trying to reason pointless. “What if… just what if it’s true, and Gascard is innocent of the murders?” I demand. “Do we not owe it to the city to see this to an end?”

 “This is the end,” Karras says flatly. “We’re going to put a blade through his black heart.”

 “Gascard knows something about the murders,” I say stubbornly. “He said--”

 Karras turns on me, eyes narrowed dangerously. “Will you let a blood mage get inside your head?”

 “No, I only--”

 “Magi are deceivers by nature. The very air they breathe is lies. They want to you to doubt, so your duty may be obscured from you. The moment they achieve this, you are theirs, because you have _fallen_. Ask Knight-Captain Cullen to recount the fall of Kinloch Hold, if you question what’s at stake. Or just look into his eyes to visit the horrors he has witnessed.” His fury takes me back, and I work my mouth soundlessly in reply. He looks at me a long moment, tension bracketing his thin mouth. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, his fingers uncoil from his fists. Fists I had not known had been restraining the pain and anger I had unthinkingly dredged from inside him. “I know that you hate me, Amell.”

 “S-Ser?” I get the word out with surprise.

 “You, and everyone else. It doesn’t mean a whit to me. But hate, fear, love; all those things; they will make you stupid if you indulge them, and stupid makes you dead. You’re no good to anyone dead. Whatever you may think of me, of mages and templars and fuck all, you’ve pledged yourself to a cause. You aren’t a man anymore. You’re a templar. And I aim to show you just what that means, whether you like it or not.” He finally spares a look at me, shadows clinging to his grim face.

 “Why do you care at all about me?”

 He searches my face for a moment, then his expression relaxes. “Meredith… you shrewd woman.” He motions me forward and we trudge on. “Come, boy. I’ll make a Hunter of you yet.”

-+-

 Darktown never sleeps. And right now the black market is the busiest place in Kirkwall. Under Kirkwall. Even though the Blight in Ferelden is over, many refugees still squat here with hopeless faces. I don’t pity them; they could have picked up a blade as I had done, or gone to work in the Bone Pit. Anything should be a better alternative than to languish in the undercity. Even the air could kill you; a toxic fog of chokedamp make many parts of the old mine dangerous, if not deadly. Kirkwall is sitting on top of a veritable powder keg. Yet after the smelly sewers, Darktown looks more like an oasis.

 “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” complains Karras as we meander through the ‘city', his mouth curled distastefully.

 I smirk. “We’ll need to have drinks at the Hanged Man sometime so you can make a fair comparison.”

 “I would rather drink from the gutter.”

 “Good. Because I think that’s where they bottle their swill.”

 We move between huddled bodies, grouped around weak, guttering campfires. Scraps of clothing, rags, broken furniture, even animal dung; it’s all burned in an effort to keep the dank chill from creeping into their bones. Karras and I pass a tent sunken beneath huge patches of mold, and ghostly faces peer from inside, warily watching us pass. Despite our attempt at a disguise, I am keenly aware of the shine on my boots, my fresh, washed skin, and the finely-crafted sword hanging from my belt.

 The deeper we wade into the impoverished misery of the camps, the many more hungry eyes we attract. “I have a bad feeling,” I tell Karras.

  “What am I, your diary?”

 Though the curious and greedy eyes that trail us can be unnerving, I’m more worried someone might recognize me. The coterie is based here though it’s been awhile since I worked for Meeran, but Tomwise and business contacts like him might remember me. Anders’ clinic is on the far side of Darktown, so no danger of crossing the tame Grey Warden here. Of course to any of these people, I’m just ‘Hawke’s little brother.’ Nothing to get excited about.

 I sponge the sweat from my temple with my sleeve, holding the phylactery in my other hand. I follow its faint pulsing light like a guiding star and direct Karras down a set of stairs. The stairs are just wood planks hammered into the sloping ground and creaks with our combined weight. At the end of the tunnel, collapsed rock has sealed the passage.

 “Another wrong turn…” I squeeze my hand around the phylactery with frustration. It’s glow has dimmed. I look over at the stairs when the boards creak, trampled by footsteps.

  A bearded human steps clear of the bottom step with a chipped, tarnished longsword in his fist. “Topsiders don’t belong here,” he says with a grin that displays brown teeth.

 “No one belongs down here,” I retort, counting two more humans and one elf behind Beardy.

 “That’s rich, coming from a Fereldan,” Beardy is quick to catch my accent. “We’ve got enough refugee shit down here, your bastard King could claim sovereign rights.”

 “Go fuck a bitch, doglord!” A lean, hollow-eyed man throws yells, spitefully hurling a rock. The stone strikes me on the shoulder. Furious, I pull my sword from its scabbard. 

Beardy whistles at the shiny forged steel. “Pretty little prick you’ve got there, mate. Sword ain’t bad either.” I angrily take a step toward him, but Karras catches my arm. “Smart man,” Beardy says, his gaze shifting between us. “You ain’t got nothing to prove in Darktown. We just want your stuff.”

 “If you try,” Karras speaks calmly, “you will die.”

 “No reason this can’t be a pleasant transaction.” Beardy’s gaze lingers where Karras grips my arm. Karras releases my elbow and steps in front of me.

 “I can hold my own against these bloody vultures,” I protest in a low voice.

 “It’s not his sword he wants to stick you with,” Karras hisses back at me.

 “That good, eh?” Beardy snickers at Karras, and I feel my ears grow hot when I realize. “You topsiders need to learn how to share.” He raises his sword, and the others lift their own weapons. Long-handle shivs, a rusted hand ax, more fucking rocks. The elf thrusts his ax above his head and yells. “Dibs on his shoes!”

 Then all the Void seems to break loose. I dodge another rock as Beardy runs at me, swinging his sword madly. I back up to a rock wall as Beardy slashes and block every strike. His form is loose, sloppy; these thugs are as untrained as they are unwashed, and I almost laugh. Templars are the best-trained warriors in all Thedas! I could probably disarm Beardy with just my bare hands!

 I turn Beardy’s blade aside, as easily as you could slap away a child’s grasping hand. “What are you going to do with a real sword if you got it?” I taunt him. “Shave with it?”

 “I’ll cram it up your asshole,” Beardy snarls though his arms are already beginning to flag as he puts all his strength behind each swing. I almost advise him against how wasteful that is, but something hits me on the side of the head. I stagger into the wall, with warm blood sliding down my neck. My vision winks, and I don’t see Beardy before his fingers dig into my scalp. My head slams into the wall, I don’t know how many times. My vision blurs as if there are tears filling my eyes.

 I realize I’m on the ground when the smell of dirt overpowers me. My head is spinning, and I taste bile in my throat. I know I’m laying there, vulnerable, but for the life of me I can’t focus. Any moment Beardy is going to kill me. I grope at the ground, trying to find my sword. Something big and heavy lands near my hand, and when I touch it there’s a gurgle.

 “Karras,” I slur, afraid it’s his body.

  “Right here,” his voice is behind me. Hands pull at me, turning me onto my back. “Amell,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Look at me. Look at me, boy.” I blink rapidly, and Karras’ face swims into my vision. He’s crouched beside me, staring at my eyes. Indolently my head rolls to the side, and I see more bodies lying on the ground. Karras cups my jaw in one hand and moves my face back to him. A glass rim is pushed to my lips. “Drink,” he orders me. I do as he says and everything gradually comes into focus. My head feels like a bruised apple, though. After I sit up, Karras pulls me to my feet.

 I look around. “You… killed them all.”

 “No thanks to you.” Karras turns away to sheath his sword, which is fortunate; his remark makes my face flush with embarrassment. “Careless,” he mutters, shaking his head over Beardy’s corpse. “You could have killed him in one stroke, as you should have.” He faces me. “Let this be your first lesson: there is no honor in pulling apart the wings of an insect.”

 I don't miss the irony of getting such sage advice from a sadist. “Yes, ser,” I say, trying so very hard not to be entirely sarcastic. I notice, late, the man now standing behind Karras. He has a bushy beard and a bloody chin, and wide, dead eyes. “Ser Karras!” I choke out, but Beardy’s chipped beaten sword pierces Karras’ leather jerkin and sticks out the other side of his torso.

 Karras looks down at the blade sticking out beneath his ribs, its tip dripping red. The stench of blood fills my nose, making my stomach clench with horror and revulsion. The other corpses are rising as I hurry to Karras. I grab the templar’s shoulders and pull him off the sword. Beardy lifts the weapon over his head, but I kick my foot into his gut and send him reeling back. As we back away from the undead bandits, I see my sword laying on the ground and snatch it up.

 “He’s here… nearby…” Karras clenches his teeth in pain, and they are pink, bloodied. He presses a hand to his wound. His linen tunic is already soaked, back and front. He gets a healing draught to his lips, but the injury is too grievous. Pain is etched out on his face as he lifts his sword to block Elfy’s swinging ax. I keep back Beardy, Shivs, and Rocky (sorry, we can’t all be as creative as Varric) as I help Karras reach the plank steps. He’s sagging from my shoulder, just as heavy as he looks.

 “Go,” he tells me, grinding the word between his teeth. “The mage must be closeby to work this foul magic.” I thrust my blade through Shivs’ chest. He continues to swipe the air between us with his knives. “First we finish these things off!”

 “If he thinks he can be defeated, he will run.” Karras’ sword flashes and Elfy’s ax drops to the ground, his hand too. But the elf doesn’t make a sound. Not a breath passes through its lips, not a hitch of pain shows on its face. Shouting, Karras jumps at the staggered elf and cleaves its neck almost in half. “Remember what I said, Amell.” He hacks at the neck again, this time dividing the head from the shoulders. Elfy’s body crumples to the ground, and I feel a prickly shiver on my spine as the Veil shifts. Beardy and Rocky’s soulless eyes are drawn to the lieutenant, but I can’t do more than watch and struggle with the dead man on my sword. I have to hang on tight to keep the hilt from being wrench from my grasp.

 Finally, I have to let go of the sword. I scramble up the steps, dodging Shivs as he stabs at me.  When I stumble out of the mine tunnel, I’m hit by a chorus of screams as Darktown squatters look up to see a man with a sword stuck through him, brandishing knives and basically looking like a bloody maniac.

 “Demon!” A man screams. “Demon!”

 Panic sweeps through the camps as people rush to get out of the way, plowing through tents and knocking over a bonfire. Embers spill into the air like a swarm of fireflies. The sparks land on a river of chokedamp and an inferno engulfs the noxious fog with a roar, swallowing whole camps in flames.

 I’m battered on all sides as confusion gives way to hysteria, as hordes of people rush to escape the devouring fire and undead corpse. Shivs is hacking at anything and anyone in reach of its knives. I fight against the tide of bodies, coughing violently as the tunnels are quickly being choked by poisonous fog and smoke. I lunge at Shivs, grabbing him by the hair. I call on the lyrium in my blood, and its power sears through me. I focus it into a righteous blade and strike it through Shivs. With a flash of light, he’s reduced to a petrified husk.

 Behind me, a hand grabs the chain around my neck. I feel the phylactery dig into my throat as its chain is given a hard yank. “Forgive my rudeness, serah,” an Orlesian accent rolls against my ear, “but I must ask for my stolen property back.”

 Gagging, I fall to my knees. The chain bites deep into my skin, choking me. My pulse is racing as I desperately swipe at the pommel sticking out from Shivs’ corpse. My fingers brush against it in vain. I strain, bracing against the darkness welling in my vision, finally managing to hook my fingers around it. I throw myself backward, still gripping onto the hilt. The blade slides free as I land on the man behind me with as much force as I can muster.

 He doesn’t let go of the chain, and I feel it snap. We struggle and the smell of blood overpowers my nostrils. I grab his wrists, finding them slick with blood from two clean cuts. He slips from my grasp, and a force of magic propels me from him. I land on a shabby tent, collapsing it. When I jump to my feet, I see the man’s hood has fallen back.

 “I don’t wish to fight you, templar,” Gascard says while clutching the phylactery with its broken chain against his chest.

 From my abused throat, my voice comes out in a croak. “Oh, my mistake. When you tried to kill me, I took it completely the wrong way.”

 “You forced my hand, serah. If I’m ever to have my revenge, I need this phylactery. To show there are no hard feelings, I leave you with your life.” He offers a slight bow and turns to leave, but when I walk toward him, Gascard raises a red hand in warning. “What are you doing?” He demands, but his voice is tinged with fear.

 “I’m going to kill you,” I say, pausing. “And I don’t think you can stop me,”

 “Don’t be a fool. I have blood magic,”  he reminds me. “You cannot withstand it.”

 “And how much blood can you stand to lose?” I walk toward him again and he steps back. Gascard’s pale face looks almost white as he gapes at me. His hand is shaking, blood dribbling down his arm, precious drops falling to the dirt.

 Gascard lowers his hand, his lower lip trembling. “I made a mistake, raising the dead. It took so much…” He sinks to his knees as I draw close. He lifts his eyes to me. “But I didn’t kill those women, I swear. L-Let me go, please, and I’ll help you. I’ll tell you everything I know!”

 “ _‘Magic is meant to serve man, never to rule over him.’_ Gascard DuPuis, you have violated the Maker’s holy laws and are hereby sentenced to die.”

 “No! Please...!” He begs at my feet, hands clasped together and weeping so piteously it’s undignified. I find myself recounting Karras’ words and feel my heart harden. Gascard hangs his head, his hair tangled knots around his face. I raise my voice above the man’s whimpering.

 “ _'Foul and corrupt are they, who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.'_ ” I raise my sword above his neck. “ _'They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond.'_ ”

 “Mercy--”

 I bring the blade down, and it is done.

-+-

 Sweat rolls down the side of my face and my muscles feel knotted all the way back my back. “Is this part of the training, lugging your carcass across the whole city?”

 “Joke all you like,” Karras says spitefully. “Just know I’ll make certain you regret it.”

 “Me, regret saving your life?” I issue a mock gasp. “But you’re such pleasant company. I think we should take the scenic route back, just so we can have more quality time together. You can tell me again how you fought off three undead while wounded.” The muscles in Karras’ jaw flex as he clenches his teeth. “Maybe Meredith will give you a medal,” I add cheerfully.

 “You’re insufferable.”

 “Young, arrogant, careless, insufferable… Are you sure I’m qualified to be a Hunter?”

 “I’ve known worse. But not much worse.”

 “Stop, I’m blushing.”

 Karras grunts, from pain or annoyance or the delightful combination of both. Together we work our way closer to the Chantry, and we begin to hear singing. The sky is still a gloomy blue, too early for first mass. I don’t recognize the hymns; the refrains are deep and somber. As we get within sight of the cathedral, I see the walkways are filled with people. What strikes me first is that most of them are still wearing their dressing gowns and nightcaps. Second, nearly everyone is carrying a candle in a vigil.

As we try to skirt around the crowds, a Chantry brother spots us limping along and rushes to help. He picks up Karras’ other arm and slings it around his neck. “You’re hurt!” the man exclaims when he gets a close look at Karras’ blood-soaked clothing.

 “It’s only a scratch,” Karras answers, dry as toast.

 The Brother blinks. “Are you sure? It looks pretty bad.”

 Karras’ neck begins to turn an angry shade of purple and red, and I leap to the man’s rescue. “He’ll survive. We’re returning to the Gallows. He’ll receive healing there.”

 “Templars! Blessings on you both.” The man casts a doleful glance back at the Chantry. “Your service will be sorely needed in the dark days ahead.”

 “Why? What’s happened?”

 The Brother looks at me sadly. “Saemus Dumar has been murdered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is really starting to interfere with the porn and I will try to fix that.
> 
> Here's a penis until then: 8=====D~ ~~ ~


	10. Demand of Her Qun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver struggles through the moral grey of being a templar and finally hashes out the past with Isabela.

“There’s a war under our noses,” Knight-Captain Cullen says to me, his gaze preoccupied with Grand Cleric Elthina across the barracks courtyard.

Together we watch the gray-haired woman, appearing weighed down in her heavy ceremonial robes, as she patiently nods along to a blustery First Enchanter Orsino.

“Saemus was a highly visible figure; his death provides political motive and justification to a myriad of enemies. I dislike gossip, but the boy was known to frequent the Qunari compound; being murdered by the creatures he defended carries shattering implications.”

“Are we certain the Qunari are responsible?” I ask.

“His body was discovered in the Chantry by a Reverend Mother while the assassins were present. They attacked to silence her. Thankfully, others came to her calls for help and killed them all. Mother Petrice gave credit to a man named Hawke. I think it must be the same man who aided in the charges against Templar-Recruit Keran.”

Cullen tsks after mentioning Keran, who hadn’t been permitted to remain in the order. But I care more about the fact that my brother is responsible for saving the day, again. _Garrett had been there? Can that be just a coincidence, or is my rebel brother now a religious zealot too?_

Cullen nods empathetically at my surprised expression. “Remarkable no one else was killed,” he says, a worried crease streaking his forehead. “What if the assassins reached Her Grace’s apartments?”

An Exalted March, I think. The Arishok may be brutal, restless, or just bored, but he isn’t stupid. There’s a brain between those horns, and he should know that killing the Grand Cleric would bring down the Chantry’s righteous hammer. The whole thing feels… off.

Who could want this, much less benefit?

“Has there been any response from the Arishok?” I ask.

“No.” Cullen briefly closes his eyes to rub them.

“No response is probably the best one for our situation.”

“You’re likely right, but I can hear the ice cracking beneath our feet.”

I check around us to make sure the gathering throng's attention is still focused on the Grand Cleric, lowering my voice. “Do you think Elthina is doing the right thing by ignoring the Qunari?”

He lowers his hand, resting it over the sword pommel hanging off his belt. “Have you thoughts on that?”

“I think we only have so many cheeks to turn. Ser.”

Cullen tips his head one way, and I follow him to a slightly more secluded part of the barracks courtyard. But only slightly. The place is stuffed full; anyone who could slip away from duty has come to see Grand Cleric Elthina and listen to her mollifying speeches.

Cullen crosses his arms in front of his ceremonial breastplate, polished just for the occasion, and leans in toward me. “I have nothing but respect for Her Grace; her burden is extraordinary. But… I must say I’m feeling resigned that confrontation with the Qunari is inevitable.”

I notice dark circles under his eyes as he sighs. “Meredith could do more to contain the rogue elements in our ranks; fanatics like Ser Varnell. But the commander has been… preoccupied lately.” He frowns particularly at this. “And she feels that the Qunari and the death of the Viscount’s son are… ‘a distraction.’”

In surprise, I raise my eyebrows. “That’s cold," I remark. "Even for her.”

Cullen blushes at the neck, looking uncomfortable by my remark. “I apologize, Captain,” I amend quickly. “That was disrespectful.”

“Yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Yet, I can’t say I haven’t had the same thought.”

I’m surprised he'd admit to feeling that way. Thinking for yourself is generally discouraged around here.

“Meredith is a hard woman to read, and that distance can make her seem unfeeling. But I know she has the Order’s best interests at heart. I trust her instinct, it’s just…” His words fail, and he looks at me until I think to nod.

“Of course,” I say, to free him of speaking. “I understand.” Even though I don’t. But Cullen seems grateful, so it doesn’t matter to me.

We both turn our heads at the same time toward a woman approaching us. Her hair is pulled back from her face, making the brand on her forehead the first thing I notice. She bows her head respectfully to each of us.

“Greetings, Knight-Captain Cullen; Ser Carver Amell.”

Like all Tranquil, when she speaks her tone of voice is monotonous, devoid of inflection and character. I’ve heard that if you spend enough time around Tranquil you could pick up subtle nuances in their speech that differentiate them from each other. Enough to mistake it for personality, I guess. I imagine it’s like listening to someone’s footsteps; eventually you could get familiar.

“Yes, Elsa?” Cullen addresses the Tranquil politely.

“Knight-Commander Meredith has requested an audience with Ser Amell. I am to escort him to her office.” She looks at us with a placid smile. The smile of a doll with a mouth painted on, and with eyes as expressive as glass beads.

The news prompts Cullen to smile at me. The corners of his mouth always seem bowed, as if it takes great effort to look happy, but compared with Elsa, the captain is warm and genuinely pleased. “It seems the commander is finally ready to render her decision about you,” he says.

“Right. Just one little decision about my entire career. Nothing to be nervous about.”

“Nothing at all. I’ll remain with Her Grace.”

He gives me a nod to set me off, and I obediently fall into step behind the Tranquil. Elsa sets a purposeful pace, her robes swishing around her feet. Neither of us speak as we leave the yard and journey through the hallways. I hear a smattering of muted applause from the courtyard; Elthina has begun her speeches, preaching patience, tolerance, and that all that crap.

I can’t speak for the rest of the city, but most templars didn’t take news of Saemus’ murder in stride. Leaving his body in the Chantry was the bloody gauntlet being thrown down and Elthina will spend the next hour advising us to ignore it, and embrace whatever test of faith the Maker saw fit to wash up on our shore. I don’t relish the thought of fighting hundreds of oxmen, but Cullen is right. A war is already being waged. Sooner than later, it will spill out of the shadows and swallow the city. If that happens, I’m prepared to fight.

Suddenly Elsa faces me and I yank myself to a full stop, realizing we're standing outside the door to Meredith’s office. “I will announce you to the Knight-Commander. Please wait.” Elsa takes the handle, pushing the heavy door in, and we’re hit with a blast of shouting and cursing.

“I will not ignore this insult…!” Immediately I recognize Karras’ voice, angry and scathing. “This inept fuckwit spends more time playing with his _dolls_ than hunting apostates. He’s unsuitable, and I don’t care how senior he is…”

Before the door shuts me out, I catch partial sight of a second templar, standing near one end of Meredith’s desk with a shaved head and a long grayed goatee.

Silence fills the hall after the door closes. Not longer than a minute later, the door slams open. I take a quick step back as Karras stomps past. I haven’t seen him in the two days since the night of the hunt, but Karras says nothing to me and stalks down the hall. He's gone before I can put together two words.

“The Knight-Commander is ready to receive you,” Elsa says behind me.

When I enter the office, Meredith gestures to a velveteen chair. The bald templar’s gaze follows me as I take my seat. His half-lidded eyes are vivid blue. They remind me of lyrium. “Ser Karras seems to be feeling better,” I offer, waiting on the tension in the room to dissipate.

Meredith smiles tightly. “Yes, the lieutenant has fully recovered from his wounds.”

“Karras is quite spirited,” the templar says. “I do hope it doesn’t get him into further trouble.”

I could be imagining the smug note in the man's voice, but something in the man's smile makes me think he and Karras aren't the poster templars for brotherhood.

“Carver, this is Ser Otto Alrik. He is a Knight-Lieutenant and one of my foremost senior Hunters. He’s requested rights to your apprenticeship. That’s what we’re here to discuss.”

“I… what?” I blink, trying to absorb that.

“I have decided to advance you to Hunter training.”

“Thank you, commander,” I say, trying to sound as gracious and professional as I can while grasping the arms of the chair so I won’t jump out of my seat in jubilation.

“Offer that gratitude to your officers and trainers. I weighed the decision heavily on their testimony. From Cullen’s report, you’re an exceptional warrior. You qualified for knighthood after only a year; that speaks of you highly.” She doesn’t smile. “However, Cullen expresses concern that you’ve withdrawn lately and have become isolated from your peers.”

There’s a pause, and I shift a little uncomfortably. She wants some form of an answer, but I’m not going to confess that I lost my friends when I refused to rape mages. “I have… friends,” I say, thinking of Abelone. She’s the only templar who speaks more than twenty words to me right now. And if that’s my standard, then I can count Cullen in too. “I’ve just been focused on my duties.”

“I have no objection to how a templar divides his spare time, so long as he remains an honorable representative of the Order. Cullen is far more interested in these personal matters, however, so if there are problems I want you to take them to him.”

“Yes, commander.”

Alrik looms as he leans toward my chair. “There are fraternities that would welcome a templar like you, Carver.”

I try not to look pained by the suggestion. “I’ll consider it, Ser Alrik.”

Meredith shuffles a few papers on her desk. “Karras had very little to say on your assessment.”

_Why am I not surprised?_

“I read the report,” Alrik says. “While a little acerbic, like our dear Karras, it clearly outlines your potential for this field of work. Slaying a maleficar single-handed on your first hunt. Marvelous.”

I think of Gascard DuPuis, soaked in his own blood and weeping for mercy, and don’t feel especially heroic. But I’m surprised to hear that Karras hadn’t sabotaged me like I expected him to, and may have even said some things that could be mistaken for nice.

“Thank you, ser. Though Ser Karras put himself at risk to make success possible.”

Alrik smiles at me with amusement. I’m not sure I like it. Or him. The guy makes me uneasy, with his unnerving eyes and oddly melodic voice.

Meredith doesn’t take notice of us, her attention focused on paperwork. “You will serve Otto until you’ve honed the necessary skills to earn the accolades of a full-rank.” She reaches for her quill and delicately gathers ink into its brass tip. “Additionally, Alrik has unique responsibilities in the Gallows. You are expected to learn them.”

Alrik hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “I oversee the Rite of Tranquility.”

“That’s a busy job,” I quip, and Meredith pauses from writing her name at the bottom of a document to look up at me. I quickly shut my mouth.

_A little too early to ruin your new career, Carver. Save something for tomorrow._

“Demanding, certainly,” Alrik says pleasantly, placing his hands behind his back. “The Maker’s work is never finished.”

“I’ll leave the explanation of the minutia to you, Ser Alrik. My assistant has already arranged the transfer. Dismissed.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander.” Alrik inclines his head respectfully to Meredith. “Please excuse us.”

I quickly get out of the chair and try to bow to the commander, but Alrik ushers me into the hall. Meredith doesn't notice; we seem to have ceased to exist as far as she's concerned.

Together we walk toward the barracks yard. As we pass the interior courtyard I see only traces left of the crowd who attended Elthina’s sermon.

I have a mentor now, I think with wonder. I’m a Hunter-Apprentice -- or is it Apprentice-Hunter? No difference to me; I’m just happy to be off babysitting duty and have real weight to my name.

“You’re an interesting recruit, Carver,” Alrik says in his soft, serene drawl. “We’ve discussed your exemplary training record, but your charisma can be a valuable skill if marketed correctly.”

Me, charismatic? I find that hard to believe and snort softly. “I think you mean notorious.”

“Do you refer to your life as a sellsword? Or when you rescinded admission to Karras’ silly club?”

“Maker, you heard about that?”

“There is very little I do not know around here. What my Tranquil hear, I know. And what I've heard about you has piqued my curiosity.”

I hate listening to haughty drivel. “Meredith said you asked to mentor me. Why, if you knew all this? I’m a templar who doesn’t hate mages; you shouldn’t have anything to do with me, right?”

“You don’t enjoy the attention?”

“I don’t like being measured against an imaginary me. Good or bad. My 'brothers' don’t know me. Neither do you.”

Alrik chuckles. “I know someone so much like you, though.” He smiles, but it feels as emotionless as Elsa’s. “I believe that is why he fought so adamantly for you to be his apprentice. Pity.”

My eyebrows contort with confusion, but he just steers me into the constabulary wing. We stop at a door near the end of a corridor full of doors just like it; dark wood with iron bands and hinges. The halls here feel narrow after a year in the larger barracks, but Alrik and I fit side by side. There are no windows, but the firelight burning in sconces along the walls illuminate our faces and ripple across our silverite armor.

“This will be your new quarters,” Alrik announces as he opens the door.

The room couldn’t have been much larger than the one I’d shared with Garrett in our uncle’s hovel, but then the Order is housed in a former prison. After a year in shared barracks, a private room is a luxury. There’s a rug rolled out over the floor to mute the chill of stone; a single bed is shoved against one wall, covered with wool blankets and a bear hide of shaggy brown fur; a small writing table and chair are set to the other side of the room; and a padded dummy to hang my armor is in another corner. Lastly, my eyes settle on a chest in the middle of the floor and I recognize it as my footlocker, presumably hauled here from the barracks.

Alrik's eyes follow me as I wander to the desk. “This wing is for templars of notable rank. Hunters reside here.” 

The desk's surface is impeccably tidy, with only a shallow leather box filled with fresh parchment, and a polished wood holder for a bottle of ink and quill on it.

_I should write mother since I finally have good news to share._

“A Hunter's life is focused on one task. To that end, we act autonomously, answerable to the Knight-Commander. Hunters are endowed with privileges and freedoms with the expectation they are used wisely; requisitions are at our disposal, and if you should need to track an apostate outside the city a stipend is provided."

I try to comprehend all that and end up squinting at the senior templar. _So this is how the upper ranks live, spoiled shits._

“It almost sounds like favoritism. Not that I'm complaining.”

“Keeping magi inside their tower is our imperative and that is reflected through a dedication of resources. Meredith is wise to allocate them as she does. Although,” and here Alrik affects a sigh; “I fear the tradition has become ineffectual. The people of this city no longer rally as they once did to our cause. They are helping the mages escape, and help keep them hidden from us. The Mage Underground has grown more powerful than Meredith will acknowledge.”

I turn away from the desk to study him. I wonder if Garrett is a part of the Mage Underground; he’s always helping his ‘fellow mages’ by getting himself neck-deep in their problems. Since meeting Anders, those two do nothing but fuel each other’s enthusiasm for a revolution that will never happen.

“How do you plan on stopping them?” I ask.

“The Maker has shown me the way. We will save them from themselves.” He smiles. “There is so much I look forward to teaching you.”

 

-+-

The first thing I learn as Alrik’s apprentice is that the man doesn’t seem to ever leave the city. Or the tower. I’m starting to wonder if I would have been better off with Karras. Which is crazy, but I dislike the feeling of being cooped up with Alrik and his Tranquil every day.

I don’t hide my restlessness as I tap the heel of my boot on the floor, watching Alrik and two Tranquil assistants prepare the ritual chamber for tonight’s use. With a sigh, Alrik finally deigns to acknowledge me with the briefest flicker of a glance as he arranges tools on a small table. “We will not perform the Rite until sundown. I encourage you occupy yourself until then.”

My hand is already on the door handle. “Yes, ser. I will.” The tower is massive; it would take weeks to explore every nook. I don’t have that kind of dedication, though, and hardly look anywhere but forward as I descend flights of stairs and wander toward the first refrains of voices I hear. I enter one of several libraries, brightly lit and comfortably warm, filled with fluffy chairs, long tables buried in tomes and catalogs, and alcoves built for private study.

As I fill the doorway, most nearby conversation dries up as eyes turn to me. The lull only lasts a moment, but it is a moment pregnant with fear, anxiety, and anticipation. The eyes hang on me a little longer than usual as I walk in; I’m not a familiar face yet, so no one knows exactly what to expect from a strange templar, an unknown variable in their lives of rigorous routine.

A petite mage with long graceful ears and a heart-shaped mouth looks up from a book in her hands when I wander between two towering aisles and almost walk over her. She’s a tiny thing, though I don’t mistake her for an apprentice; untested mages are confined to the lowest floors. “Excuse me,” I say apologetically.

Her eyes round at me. “I’ve never seen you before.” She closes her book and hugs it to her chest. Tightly. The small mounds of her cleavage swell above the neckline of her robe. “I’m Shoshanna. What’s your name?”

“Um, Car---uh, Ser Amell. If I could just--” I’m trying to slip by her, but she just stands on her toes and flashes her eyelashes at me when I get closer.

“Are you looking for someone? Do you have a sweetheart?”

“No, I’m--”

“But you’re so handsome. Oh, and your voice is nice. You smell nice, too.”

“Thank you? But I just need to get by, so...” I put my fingers lightly on Shoshanna’s shoulders and guide her back, so I can step around her without my back knocking books to the floor. She giggles. “You don’t need to do that,” she says teasingly, and puts away her book by just tossing it on a random shelf.

“Do… what?”

Shoshanna giggles again. “That.” She slips her slender hand into one of mine. “Over here is fine.” She tugs, and I follow her to the end of the aisle, and around a corner. There are a few alcoves along the wall, interspersed with the bookcases, and it’s immediately apparent to me that one of the study desks is in use by two people, if the two naked legs hoisted in the air and the templar between them is anything to judge by.

Shoshanna sees them too, but doesn’t even blink at the view. She twirls around to face me. The next instant, the elf vanishes under my robe. Her fingers are practiced and I feel the laces on my trousers nimbly pulled slack before I can even get out a surprised noise. “Wha, stop that,” I hiss loudly, reaching through the part in my robe to grab her. She squeals when my fingers catch on her hair, my touch only spurring her to reach inside my pants. I back up and hit the end of a bookshelf with a hard rattle, and Shoshanna spills onto the floor outside my robe.

When I raise my eyes, the templar fucking the mage into the table is watching us. His broad shoulders are turned halfway toward me, but his cock is still thrust between those two slender legs sticking out from cover. The templar’s face, half-covered in a red beard, is flushed from lust, straight down his neck. His eyes are shining with anger from being interrupted, but he recognizes me and his expression changes.

“Georg!” I blurt. The woman splayed in front of him props herself up and looks around at the noise. _She’s the Starkhaven mage from Karras' initiation_. That tattoo by her left eye leaves me no doubt. I turn to hurry back the way I came.

Georg surprises me by meeting me in the corridor before I take the stairs back to Alrik's chamber. “Carver,” he calls. I stop because there isn't anger in his tone, but only face him with reluctantance.

“So you remember me,” I say dryly.

“‘Course I do, lad.” Georg is combing his thick fingers through his hair as he approaches, tying the long strands back into a bun. When his hands are free, he reaches to grasp one of my forearms and give it a shake. “It’s been a time, eh?”

“That's your doing.”

“C’mon, Carver, are you gonna be like that or are you gonna let me explain?”

“I think I can manage both.” I stick my chin out defiantly, but I’ve missed my friend more than I’ve let myself admit. But that doesn’t make up for my resentment that he's spurned me for months. “Actually, nevermind; I’ll just be like this. This works for me.” I start up the steps, but stop to look back. “You know, it’s wrong that I'm being punished for refusing to rape a mage, like that somehow proves I’m not _good enough_ to be a templar. We’re supposed to be protecting these people, not hurting them. Most of the templars here have forgotten that they _are_ people. You prove that, raping that woman like it’s a divine right. The Maker never intended this, I promise you.”

His mouth falls open in shock. “I don’t rape her.”

I turn from him in disgust. If I hear any more I’m going to punch him. Georg’s armor clanks as he climbs the steps; he stays one tier below me but is so big I still have to look up. “I love her,” he says in a fierce, impassioned whisper. “I’m not who I was. Grace has helped me see that, it's made me a better man. I would never hurt her. I love her deeply.” My anger caves to confusion as I stare into Georg’s earnest face. “I left the Antimagus, Carver. And I’ve given up being a Hunter. I want to be wherever Grace is, and keep her safe.”

“Being a Hunter is all you ever talked about.”

“Grace wants me here. She needs me.”

“What about your daughter, your wife?”

“That was a different life.”

I stare him. As much as I’d like to believe a man like Georg has had a change of heart, I’m struggling to accept it could change this much in a few short months. “I’m… happy for you.”

_Less so for your old family._

Georg puts his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, lad. I best get back. I don’t like Grace being alone.” He hurries down the steps and strides back toward the library.

_What in the Maker’s name was that?_

I am slow to return to the ritual chamber, pausing to press my face to one of the arrow slits in the wall that gives a glimpse of the bay surrounding the Gallows. The water glitters like topaz as the sun sets behind it.

When I do come back the chamber, I’m almost breathless from an endless, windy stairwell. I see that the mage being submitted to the Ritual was brought in while I was gone. The man wears special shackles around his wrists, in case he turns into an abomination. That can happen when the mage is unwilling to undergo the Rite, but this guy seems calm enough to me. He sits up when I enter and even greets me a flicker of a smile.

“Caelestis, this is Ser Carver. My apprentice.”

“Hello, Ser Carver,” Caelestis says, a dimple at the corner of his smile. He has bright blonde hair, rich brown eyes, and smooth cheeks; he’s almost pretty like a girl.

“Am I in the right room?” I mutter to myself. The air is thrumming, the fumes of lyrium a haze that lingers over a brazier of white coals. A long rod is stuck in them, runes glowing up the length, and Alrik holds its handle.

Alrik doesn’t break his gaze from the brazier as I arrive at his side. “You were expecting torture and mutilation?”

“Of course not,” I lie.

“You have spent too much time in the crass company of men like Karras. Caelestis is not being punished. He is here of his own free will.”

The chains hanging from the mage’s hands clink as he stirs behind me. When I look at him, he lowers his eyes. “You’re a Harrowed mage,” I say, noticing his robes and the fraternity marker on his collar. “You’ve proven that you’re strong enough to resist temptation. Why would you choose to be Tranquil?”

“I am tired of dreams, of the Fade…” His voice catches. “Demons never tire. It’s only a matter of time until they wear down my mind. I’m not strong enough; I don’t want to become an abomination!”

“They will never have you,” Alrik promises. “And you will never suffer to dream again.”

“Thank you,” Caelestis whispers, his eyes glazed. “I want the Maker’s forgiveness more than anything. I never asked for this.”

“Forgiveness? You said he wasn’t being punished,” I say to Alrik.

“Look at this man. He is living in punishment every day. Shall we condemn him to bear the iniquity of his curse, ignoring that it is within our power to relieve him? It is our duty to protect mages, yes, and we do that by honoring his bravery and honesty. Any mage has the right to lay down his burden and say ‘enough’; he has earned his peace.”

I look at Caelestis closely. Father said that Tranquility is worse than death. But Father was strong and didn't doubt his ability to resist demons. And the Tranquil, while creepy, seem content. Alrik's sense of reason is compelling and I accept it.

“ _‘The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of this world, she shall know true peace,’_ ” Caelistis softly recites Transfigurations, his eyes closed in prayer. Alrik lifts the rod from the brazier. The end is fashioned into the sunburst symbol of the Chantry, glowing white-blue. The smell of lyrium burns my nostrils and awakens a craving deep inside me. Alrik offers the Brand to me, and my misgivings fall away as I take it in my hand. Alrik nods approvingly. “Tonight, the Maker’s benediction is yours to give.”

When it is done, I leave haunted by Caelestis’ eyes, when everything inside him melted away like snow.

-+-

 

It is pitch dark in my room when the banging at the door wakes me. A pounding fist on the other side of the thick wood doesn’t abate as I tighten the laces on my pants and cross to open the door. A Templar-Hunter is standing in the hall. She has short hair and a plump face that I only vaguely recognize. “Ser Amell, my name is Moira. I bring news of Ser Emeric; his body was found in Lowtown tonight. He was murdered.”

“Murdered?”

Sorrow and anger play across her mouth. “I was wrong to doubt him. But I heard you had helped him; I thought you should know.”

Emeric is dead. I repeat it in my head until it sticks. I swallow thickly. “What happened; who killed him?”

“He was right. About the murders. He got too close to finding the Kirkwall Killer.”

My stomach sinks. “That can’t be right. I found the killer. Karras and I stopped him.”

Moira clubs me with a blunt look. “You sure you got the right mage?”

I almost snap back at her, but can’t. Wearily I lean against the doorway. “No… I don’t think so. I hoped...”

“Ser Emeric was a good man. I heard he was retiring to a town in the countryside. He didn’t deserve to die that way. When he got that lead yesterday, I thought he just wanted a last shot at glory.”

“A lead?”

“I deliver missives when on light duty, see, and brought Emeric his mail yesterday. He said the letter was a tip about the murders and ran off to meet someone in Lowtown. That was the trap.”

“Do you know who sent the letter?”

“I have it right here.” Moira digs a crumpled, half-folded paper from her belt. She hesitates. “I should’ve gave this to Meredith, but she doesn’t care about what happened to Emeric. Everyone heard she was kicking him out of the Order because he embarrassed her. I just hope we can still help him, somehow. Well, he’s at peace now with the Maker.” Moira hands the letter over to me and lifts the lantern in her other hand to see her way down the hall. “Goodnight, ser.”

“Goodnight,” I mumble back, holding onto the folded paper as I retreat into my room. I light a few candles and sit at the desk, where I lay flat the rumpled paper and try to smooth it with my palm. The message is brief, but when I finish reading the name attached to the bottom I rub my eyes in disbelief and read it again. The name doesn’t change.

_Garrett Hawke_

-+-

 

It’s a little early to be piss-drunk, but it’s obvious when I enter the Hanged Man that no one’s told the louts passed out over their tables. “Welcome, sweetie,” Norah calls from across the room. Her arms are loaded with a tray of empty mugs. “I’ve got blood to mop up yet, so see Corff at the bar.”

“Good...morning,” Corff offers, clearly unsure of the time of day.

“Why not,” I reply, leaning my shoulder against one of the posts holding up the bar. Corff sets aside the mug he’s scrubbing. “What’ll it be, serah?”

“You don’t remember me, Corff?” I thought there was a chance the guy would recognize me. I spent almost every night here during the first year in Kirkwall.

Corff shyly scratches the stubble sprouting on his chin. “Um, yes, of course… you’re… my favorite customer.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Right. Ale, please.”

While the foam on my ale settles, I take a casual look around Garrett’s stomping ground. Rightaway I notice the hole Fenris put through a wall hasn’t been patched, dated when Varric and Isabela taught him Wicked Grace. I wonder if he’s gotten any better. I see fresh flowers in a jar above the fireplace -- Merrill’s doing, probably. I haven’t heard any rumors about a Dalish, so she must be fitting in well in the Alienage. Good for her.

“Damn it, I’m brooding. Stop brooding,” I mutter, and sit on a rickety stool. If I had worn my armor, the wood legs would have snapped apart like twigs. I drink my ale, not having missed the swill at all, and keep an eye out for Garrett. I tried the Amell manor, but no one other than Sandal was at home, and the weird dwarf wasn’t exactly helpful. Better to keep this public anyway; less likely for this to end in dismemberment. Hopefully, I think, as I watch Norah push a bloodstained mop around the floor.

I don’t want Garrett to be involved in Emeric’s murder, but the letter in my pocket has Garrett’s name on it, and that had lured Emeric to his death. I don’t doubt that my brother will do whatever it takes to protect another mage -- killing templars doesn’t even seem the least repugnant -- but what I like least is that Emeric was attacked by demons. A power only maleficarum wield. Garrett has proven he’s blind to the dangers, by helping the disciples of Decimus, Gascard, even Merrill. But is my brother crazy enough to use blood magic himself?

“ _O salty sea goddess! Do not castaway my love, nor maroon me in lonely despair! Ride the waves of passion with me, until we drown in ecstasy!_ ” A shrill voice climbs over the low din of the tavern. I turn my head and see Isabela on her way down the crooked stairs at the back of the tavern, followed by a man wearing a wispy mustache and purple silk shirt. The instant I see her, my chest tightens in a mix of apprehension and excitement.

“I think you can manage the drowning part on your own,” she tells the poet.

“But you haven’t heard the part where I feast upon your bed of oysters!” He whines.

“Let me enjoy the suspense,” Isabela quips. Our eyes meet and I smile nervously. “I almost don’t recognize you without a skirt,” she says before she’s swaggered up to my side.

“I almost don’t recognize you sober.”

Isabela grins. “Charmer.”

For a second, this feels like just another night at the Hanged Man, stealing a few minutes with the Rivani before Garrett can swoop in to steal her back. “I, um, I’m looking for my brother. Is he… with you?”

She glances away as she tries to get Corff’s attention. “You mean, has he been ravished and left a state of exquisite satisfaction upstairs?”

“Thanks for that, yes. I need to talk to him.”

“Talking’s boring. Why don’t you join in? Every virile man should experience an Antivan Milk Sandwich at least once. Imagine confessing that delicious sin to those Chantry hens.” Isabela slams her hand on the counter. “Don’t ignore me, Corff. Whiskey!”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s better than their bourbon.”

“That’s not--oh, whatever.”

Corff slides a full glass toward Isabela and she throws its contents into her mouth. “That’s better! I was dangerously close to being sober.” She notices my mortified expression and bumps against my arm with her elbow. “I was joking, Carver. Hawke isn’t even here.”

“Oh, I remember now. You’re Hawke’s brother,” Corff says with a triumphant smile, dutifully refilling Isabela’s glass.

I push away my emptied mug in irritation. “That’s my name. Hawke’s brother.” Isabela snorts with amusement and I shoot her a look. Corff sets down the whiskey bottle and thoughtfully scratches his chin. “I heard you died in the Deep Roads.”

“I did. I’m a ghost. So put this on the Maker’s tab.” Isabela reaches over the bar and grabs the bottle of whiskey as Corff sputters, then utters a resigned sigh as she and I leave the counter. “Do you know if he’ll be here tonight?” I ask.

“If Hawke’s coming, that’s between him and Anders.”

“What?”

She gestures to the stairs with the bottle in her hand. “Let’s ask his secretary.” I follow her up the steps, my eyes stuck to her swaying hips. So not fair. At the top landing we see the door to Varric’s suite is left open. “Knock knock,” Isabela declares as we walk in. “Andraste’s witnesses.”

Varric Tethras looks up from the end of a table that’s cluttered with as many cups as stacked books and scrolls. “Rivani, the sun is still up. Why are you conscious?”

Isabela struts over and sits on top of the table. Her thigh displaces some loose papers that flutter to the floor. “Happy Saturnalia,” she says sweetly, setting the whiskey bottle down in front of him, on top of an open ledger.

The dwarf moves the bottle to the side and brushes his hand across the wet mark left on the paper. “What a thoughtful gesture that has absolutely nothing to do with the debt you owe me.”

Isabela grins. “I’m a giver.”

“So I’ve heard. Repeatedly.” He grumbles. “I think the walls here are just decorative.” Varric notices me hanging back in the doorway. His eyes flick from me to Isabela, then back to me, all in one instant. He doesn’t stop smiling, but I notice the corners of his mouth tighten like screws. “Come on in. It’s why I leave the door open. Unless Isabela’s going to inspire another poetry recital.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, and reluctantly stand by the table. Isabela keeps an eye on me as she casually leans back on her hands, causing her hair to slide off her shoulders and hang down her back. My attention strays down the curves of her body, drawn to her bare thigh where her tunic rides up after she crosses her legs.

“So, Junior.” Varric isn't phased by Isabela sprawled over half the table. In fact, he seems to only look at me. “What brings you into my humble palatial suite?”

“I’m looking for my brother.”

“Would this be for business or pleasure?”

Isabela lights up. “Ooh, pleasure!”

“No!” I exclaim, a little more harshly than I mean to. Isabela responds sulkily by taking a gulp from the whiskey bottle.

“Business, then,” Varric fills in, his voice clipped. “Did the Knight-Commander send you or did you volunteer?”

“No. I’m not… No.” Varric doesn’t look convinced though now I realize he’ll doubt anything I say. “Look, it’s private. Just tell me where I can find him.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not handing my friend over to yours.”

“The templars didn’t send me,” I insist, my patience fraying. “If I wanted Garrett in the Circle, I wouldn’t need your help to do it.”

“That’s a relief. Anything else you don’t need me for?”

“I get it. It’s not because I’m a templar; you just don’t like me.”

He smirks. “What’s not to like?”

“You think I deserve that, why?” I step back, bristling. “My brother despises me, so that’s good enough for the rest of you? What have I ever done, but serve my family; I protected Garrett and Bethany after father died. I did whatever it took to keep the family together.”

Varric sighs. “Come on, kid…”

I slam my hand on the table. “No! I’m Carver Hawke. I’m a son, a brother, a warrior and a templar. I earned those things. I’m a man, and not you or anyone can take that away. I won’t be made ashamed of taking something for myself.” I feel Isabela’s hand touch my arm, fingers indenting the hard muscle that’s so tightened I’m almost trembling. “Garrett seems to think I should pay for this with my life, but I won’t give that to him. I don’t owe my life to anyone, not anymore.” I reach into my jacket and feel the edge of Emeric’s letter. I take the letter out and rip it to pieces, letting them fall from my fingers and it. “Garrett left me in the Deep Roads to die and lied about it. But since we know you don’t get better from the blight, I think you knew that already.”

Varric rubs his forehead, looking very uneasy, and then I know I’m right. “What’s he talking about, Varric?” Isabela’s eyes remain wide and slightly unfocused, as she grapples with the revelations dropping around us like those shreds of paper.

“I didn’t know, not for sure.” He leans back as if anticipating Isabela might reach out to wring a better answer from him. “I suspected there was more to it, but Hawke didn’t want to talk about it. He was barely holding together.” The warm concern in Varric’s voice when he talks about Garrett spreads through me like poison.

“Well, then, I completely understand,” I sneer. “My fault for not dying when I was supposed to. You can tell him to just keep trying. Eventually, he’ll get the right templar.”

“I’ll let him know you stopped by,” Varric mumbles as I walk out of the suite. I hear Isabela and Varric exchanging angry words as I hit the bottom step and cross to the front door of the tavern, slamming it behind me with the force to knock curtains of dust from the rafters.

I already feel a little better as I breathe in the tang of briny air wafting in from the Lowtown docks. I start walking.

 

-+-

 

I sit at the end of a pier to watch the water turn from orange to silver as the moon rises above the Vimmarks. With my legs dangling in the cold water, I consider how long it’s been since I just sat out for a while and breathed. Taking a break from the endless upheavel of living with an apostate family always seemed like a dangerous diversion; I could be earning coin, or learning how to better my swordarm; and standing in front of whatever tries to kill my brother was already a full-time job.

But I no longer have to worry about what’s going to happen to me the next day, do I? I have a home and a purpose with the Templar Order. I feel good about my work with Alrik, and it seems like there’s a possibility Georg and I could patch things and become friends again. Karras may not even hate my guts as much as I had thought. For once, my life is getting better instead of worse.

So why does it still feel like there’s a hole in my chest?

The rough planks leading from the docks and over the water creak and groan as someone walks along them, approaching my back. “Do you mind, if I join you?” Isabela says softly. I nod. She sits down next to me, crossing her legs beneath her. After that, she doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. We sit in comfortable silence together, and listen to the docks at night; water rumbling around the piers wood supports; the fisher ships groaning as they ride gentle swells; and the squeak from rigging swinging in a stiff breeze.

Isabela inhales deeply. When she breathes out, her mouth bows into a smile. “I love this.”

“It’s a nice night.”

“Nights like these are best enjoyed on the open sea. I still remember what it’s like; standing on the deck of the Siren’s Call, the familiar grain of the wood against your bare feet; the salty air on your skin, the taste thick on your lips; feeling the lunge of the ship in the deepest part of your belly as she cuts through the water, free as a seahawke.”

I lean in and kiss her. Her lips are cool again mine, and when she parts them a flood of warmth enters my mouth. I open up to her the same way, our tongues softly brushing together. The tenderness behind her touch gently wipes away my fear, and I reach up to thread my fingers into her hair. I feel her fingers graze my jaw, exploring the shape of one ear, then comb through my hair.

Isabela pulls away slowly, leisurely, licking my lips with the tip of her tongue. She tastes like exotic spices I can’t name. I groan from want as she sits back on her hands, her hair slides from my fingers and falling against her neck.

She cocks her head. “So you aren’t mad at me,” she teases.

“No.” I’m distracted by the look of her lush, wet mouth. “I think I’m the other thing.”

She lowers her gaze. “You are.” Her eyes flick back to mine. “I hate to be serious… really, really hate it… but I want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

I never could tell when she’s lining me up for a joke, but this time I think Isabela means it. “You’re scaring me, Isabela.”

“Shut up. Listen, I just want you to know that I regret taking it for granted that we could have sex and it wouldn’t… matter.” I can’t help but flinch, and she looks at me apologetically. “I know that sounds horrible, even to me. But I need you to understand that I’ve always just done what I thought would be fun. When you get right down to it, we’re not responsible for anyone but ourselves. You can choose to be free, or you can choose to be saddled with all the world’s problems.”

“Is it always so easy for you?”

“I… ugh.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “You’re talking about us, aren’t you?”

“Is there even an ‘us’?”

She pauses. “I don’t know. That’s… I’ve been trying to figure that out.”

We’re both quiet then, leaving me to anxiously comb my hand through my hair. The sound of waves sloshing under the pier fills in the silence until Isabela turns her face to me. “Did Hawke tell you that I was once married?”

“No… He never talked about you. I mean, not with me.”

She smiles at my fumble, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “All you need to know is that it wasn’t my idea. Like most men I’ve met, my husband saw me as nothing other than a pretty bauble, so that’s how I was treated. When he died, I couldn’t sail away fast enough.”

“Have you never been in love?”

“I have.” She sits forward, watching the gentle waves roll toward the pier. “Not long after my husband died, I met a man. He… foolishly asked for my hand. I refused to be tied down again, and I fled.” Isabela sadly drops her gaze to her hands piled in her lap. “It broke his heart.”

“I’m… sorry.”

“It was for the best. I saved him a lot of trouble.”

I slowly shake my head as I realize all these games she plays, keeping people at a safe distance; it was never meant to protect her from being hurt. “You just don’t want to hurt someone else again.”

She looks at me, almost startled. “No, I… Look, it’s not like that, it’s… just easier, for everyone, if it stays simple. No fuss, no muss.”

I don’t want to believe that, but I can understand it. “What about you and Garrett?”

Isabela is amused. “There was never an ‘and’, Carver. There was sex. Garrett was saving his ‘and’ for someone else. And if I know my puppy eyes, it’s our bow-legged Anders.”

“Wait, you know about them?”

“Oh, I know all about them. From front to back. Every nook and cranny.” She giggles when my mouth drops open. “Don’t worry, I only watched. A few times. Hawke tried so hard to persuade him to sleep with us, but Anders will only bend for Hawke when they’re alone apparently. For someone who already shares his body with spirit, the man’s a prude. Hawke’s going to have his hands full.” She grins deviously. “Hands full. Do you get it?”

“I feel ill.”

“You’re already sitting, so maybe you should stand up?”

“I caught them at it once, in the Roads, and thought Garrett was cheating on you.”

“I’m not a game of cards,” she teases.

“I know. But it made me so angry, mostly at myself. I should have done something, or said something. But when I tried to tell you… we ended up...” Heat creeps into my face. “We ended up… well, I ended up marooned, and when I got back, I was only thinking of how to get back at Garrett for leaving me there.”

“That wasn’t easy for me, you know,” Isabela admits. She brushes away a strand of her hair that slipped free from her bandana. “Thinking all of you were dead, and then have Hawke and Anders come back and… have to accept you were dead all over again. Don’t look at me like that. It’s just because I felt terrible about how we parted, that I wasn’t able to tell you I was sorry. But now I’ve done that, so you can throw yourself in front of a fireball or whatever templars do.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

She seizes me by the front of my jerkin and pulls me into a hard, demanding kiss.

“Damn,” she curses when she pushes me away from her with equal fervor. “Shit. Damn. Shit.”

“What?” I ask nervously, patting down my hair that her roaming fingers had twisted into sticking out in all directions.

“I think I’m… I’m willing to give ‘us’ a try.” She narrows her eyes at me slightly. “But I need you to prove to me that this could work.”

My heart takes a dive, making me feel heady. “Yes! I mean, what do you need from me?”

She measures me with a long, sideways look. “Well, you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

The question shocks me like a sudden slap and my mouth opens with an incomprehensible sound.

“I thought so. You had me fooled for a while, with the time you spent at the Blooming Rose.”

I mumble something about Meeran and fitting in with the Red Iron. Which is true. I just never used all the services the Rose had to offer.

Isabela smirks, as smug as I've ever seen her. “But once I got my hands on you...”

I shift uncomfortably. “Is my, uh, inexperience a problem for you?”

“That’s not it. I’ll teach you everything I know, with relish. The trick is to not bring feelings into it.” She half-shrugs. “A person’s first time can be complicated. I just don’t want the responsibility of being your first. I want this...us… to be something we can both handle.”

“You’re asking me to have sex with a stranger to prove I want to be with you?”

“It sounds better in my head.” Isabela hesitates. “It doesn’t have to be a stranger. I have friends I could introduce you to.”

I stare at her until it becomes uncomfortable for us both, and I look down at my legs, my feet now numb in the cold water. Sure, I may have enjoyed fantasies of other women, but the very real notion of having sex with any of them makes me feel a peculiar dread. I’m in love with Isabela; she’s the woman I want to be with, and the only one. Which is exactly what she doesn’t want from me.

“It was a bad idea,” Isabela says suddenly, standing up. “We’re too different. You’re too… good. And I’m any number of things, but a goody isn’t one of them.”

I quickly pull my feet from the water. “You’re wrong,” I say, grabbing her arm before I’m completely on my feet, a puddle already forming on the gnarled planks. I pull her closer and she willingly presses herself against my chest. When she looks into my eyes, I don't show any of her own uncertainty.

I hold her tighter, dipping my mouth down to kiss taste hers again. “We have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characteristically Canon: This Pro-Mage Hawke doesn't host tea parties with templars, so he and Cullen only met during Enemies Among Us, which means Garrett and Carver's relationship is still on the DL.


	11. The V Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver Hawke; Deep Roads explorer, self-made adventurer, stout templar, and blushing virgin. Isabela has tasked Carver to fix that last one.

 It’s not my fault that I wake up in bed with an erection. After my night with Isabela, it's not a surprise. With the blankets twisted around my legs, I dutifully roll onto my back, then push the waist of my pants below my hips, wrapping my hand around my cock. Last night’s memories slide blearily through my sleepy mind while I slowly, almost lazily, pump the shaft

 No one had disturbed us on the empty pier last night so we remained there even when a wet fog rolled off the water, thick enough to obscure the boats bobbing on the end of their ropes. I don’t think Isabela would have cared if it was bustling at high noon; after agreeing to her terms, she consumed me with such torrid kisses that I found myself supine beneath her on the planks.

 I was lustfully hard when she sat on my stomach and loosened the binds of her corset. I had reached up to help, but Isabela insisted I only watch. And I did, mesmerized, as she patiently plucked the lacing, the corset gradually relaxing, until her tunic furled open like a midnight flower and her breasts popped free.

 Remembering the exotic color of her nipples, pebbled in the cool air, elicits a pleasurable shudder from me in my lonely quarters. I hold the memory of Isabela naked in my mind, and the vivid picture of her thick, luscious curves drives my cock to fully harden with intent. I take a deep breath as I remember how she knelt over my chest, knees spread so I could watch her fingers disappear into the tuft of curly black hair between her legs. I watched her pump those fingers inside herself. Her power and confidence always thrilled me, and last night she was the epitome of both.

  Her eyes never strayed from me, and the blush under her skin was pure pleasure, without a twinge of shame; it was quintessential Isabela. Watching her pleasure herself in front of me --  for me -- had been a maddening exercise in self-restraint. She watched me intently, a faint smile imposed over her parted lips as she seemed to enjoy my excitement and pain as much as she enjoyed her own ministrations.

 In my bedroom, I moan out loud; something I never let myself do in the barracks as a recruit when a quick jerk under a blanket was the best release I could afford. Here I can finally take my time. Maybe not this morning, however. I already feel the pressure building toward release. Maker, I should start keeping some kind of oil around if it’s going to be like this every morning. I begin to work my cock with both hands and recall how impressed Isabela had seemed when she was doing just this in my expedition tent.

 I wonder how much she'll enjoy it when I slide my cock inside her.

 The thought strikes me as vulgar the moment it crosses my thoughts. But it arouses me too, and I imagine sliding in and out of her, her tongue in my mouth and her legs crossed against my back. And with that image in mind I can't hold back release. Jets of seed land across my chest and stomach, though it's less of a mess than I made of myself last night, minutes after I shut the door to my room.

  Isabela didn’t let me relieve myself while I was with her, so I was straining the stitching on my trousers when I returned to the Gallows. She probably hoped it would motivate me to run into the city and fuck the first thing with a pulse. That woman is wicked. And mine. After all the shit I've been through, despite my reluctance with my arrangement with her, I've honestly never been more hopeful about what could be in store for me.

  Releasing my wilting cock, I turn onto my side to get another hour of sleep. But I open my eyes when I hear the latch on the door click into place. It's Caelestis, standing at the foot of the bed.

 “Good morning, Ser Carver,” the Tranquil says.

 “Shit --” I reach for the blankets, tugging them futilely.

 He moves to the side of the bed. “Are you feeling well? You appear feverish.”

  To my embarrassment, Caelestis' lowers his gaze to see exactly what I’m trying to hide. He blinks, his mouth a neutral line, looking not the least perturbed at the sight of my spent cock. Unhurried, Caelestis takes a handkerchief from his robe and bends in to mop the mess left on my stomach. I stare, stupefied. When the handkerchief brushes against my sensitive bits, my senses snap back and I knock away his hand.

  “Don’t touch me,” I order.

  Caelestis immediately steps back, holding onto the soiled cloth. “Ser Carver.”

  When I try to sit up on the bedside, he watches impassively as I tumble over the edge, my legs still bound up in a blanket. The stone floor feels like ice against my bare skin. “Shit!”

  “You seem distressed,” Caelestis observes. I glare at him though it’s the Brand that's centered on his forehead I always end up looking at. “Is there anything you require of me to improve your disposition?”

  “Learn to fucking knock, maybe?” I  snap at him, finally freeing my legs and tossing the blanket away from me.

  “I will endeavor to improve the skill.”

  “Okay, you do that.” I pull up my pants and make a clumsy knot with the laces before walking a few feet to the desk where a clean shirt is folded over the chair. “Don’t, uh, tell anyone about this,” I manage in a calmer voice.

  “I will not volunteer information of your nocturnal emissions unnecessarily.”

  I stick my through the shirt’s sleeves, then pull it over my head. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Have a lock put on my door before tonight.”

  Caelestis nods, his rich brown eyes following my movements as I sit down to put on my boots. I pause from doing the laces on the first boot. “Don’t just watch me,” I tell him, annoyed that he’s even here. If I command him to leave he’ll likely go straight to Alrik and I’ll have to answer why I rebuffed one of his Tranquil. It’s just not worth a lecture. “Prepare a philter if you need something to do.”

 By the time I finish strapping myself into the armor hanging nearby on the padded stand, Caelestis has my draught ready. My senses seem to flare to new life when the lyrium hits my tongue. I empty the flask in one long drink while Caelestis shuffles around me, buckling my swordbelt around my waist and attaching the scabbard. Today, the sword isn't just for looks; I'll get to use it for a sparring session with the captain.

 When a knock comes at the door, Caelestis leaves me to open it. I tidy my hair with a wood comb (the captain is so picky about presentation) while the Tranquil confers with a courier. After the door closes, he returns to me. “The missives, Ser Carver.”

 I check my reflection in a small mirror. “Are any important?” There's a bit of a shadow on my face, but I decide to put off shaving until tomorrow.

 The Tranquil finishes examining each seal imprinted on their wax lumps. “Among notices and a reply from requisitions, you have received a letter from House Tethras and from your Lady mother bearing the Amell sigil.”

  _I wonder if it needles Garrett any, that mother has all but abandoned the Hawke name._

 While Caelestis offers the letters to me, deep bronze tones from the courtyard bell begin to echo through the constabulary. “I don’t have time for reading,” I say, eager to meet with Cullen. “Leave them.”

~~**-+-** ~~

 

 “You almost had me,” Cullen says with a grin.

  I hold my shield up, circling him. “That’s generous; I missed you completely.”

 Cullen watches me carefully, glancing down at my feet, trying to divine my next move; I adjust the level of my shield in response, to make that more difficult on him. “You’ve been putting yourself down all morning. Your skill has not suffered, as you say.”

 “I haven’t won a round yet.”

 “How is that unusual?” He counters glibly.

 I’m not in the mood for teasing. “Sparring with you is the only decent training I get,” I complain bitterly; “and you’re so busy these days doing the Knight-Commander’s job for her, there’s hardly any chances for us to do this.”

  I charge forward and our shields collide the screeching of metal makes my teeth clench. Cullen grunts and pushes back, but we’re matched in strength and neither of us budge more than a foot at a time.

  “That’s unworthy of you, Carver.”

  “I think it’s unworthy of you to remark on my unworthiness, Cullen,” I mock him. “I’m tired of hearing that line when someone’s feelings get stepped on with the truth.”

  Normally I don't give the Knight-Captain of the Templar Order any sass, but during our private spars we're just Cullen and Carver, two Fereldan boys. Rank gets put on the shelf. Still, Cullen looks peevish when I pick on him. He slashes his sword at my open side as I bring my own blade up to meet it.  “I’ve been delegated some paperwork, a few more routines, but I don’t think it's made me a recluse,” Cullen says, his voice strained as we fight against each other for advantage.

  Our swords cross several times, Cullen’s blows nudging an opening in my defense, and I reel back to avoid being disarmed by the next thrust. He follows me with his shield held up while I back up and regain my footing. “You're right,” I admit, trying to catch my breath. “This just… isn’t what I expected. Ser Alrik.”

  Cullen drops his shield. I do the same. My muscles feel knotted from neck to tailbone from the long morning of vigorious practice. I don't mind the pain; it's become so familiar and expected that I like it. Hard evidence of hard work.

  “I would have advised Meredith against pairing you together,” he says, rolling the shoulder he’s freed from his shield’s weight. “But I had no knowledge of Ser Alrik’s request. It must have been very last minute.”

  “I don’t understand why Alrik asked to apprentice me; he doesn’t act the least interested. He summons me for Rites and makes me read the most boring books; other than that, he has the Tranquil nanny me.”

  I remember my first conversation with Alrik and what he said that’s stuck with me. “Was Ser Karras going to be my trainer, before Ser Alrik pulled rank?”

  “Yes. When Karras submitted his assessment of your hunt he also requested that he continue your training. Meredith had agreed to it at the time.”

  My eyebrows jump at this, but not because Karras might have been my mentor, rather that he had _wanted_ to be. Before the hunt for Gascard, I would have assumed that Karras’ intention is to make me miserable; I’d spurned his fraternity, defied his principles, and mocked him whenever I could get away with it. Balancing the scales just seems expected.

 “That makes more sense, then. It's bad blood between those two, with me stuck in the middle.”

 Cullen looks uncomfortable. “I can’t reverse Meredith’s decision, I’m sorry.”

 That’s when I do laugh. “Don’t be. I wouldn’t ask it. I’d find something to complain about whether I’m bored with Ser Alrik or broken in half by Ser Karras.”

 Despite my claim, Cullen smiles sympathetically. We return to practice without another word on the subject, though I continue to ponder it. I’ve spent weeks under Otto Alrik’s tutelage and we haven’t gone on a single hunt or even sparred to get a feel for working together. I know that there's plenty of work for a Templar-Hunter to do; apostates are practically crawling out of the woodwork in this city. New rumors make the rounds every few days about a Circle mage gone missing or news of the Mage Underground.

  Alrik doesn’t seem to care what goes on outside the Gallows. He believes his research in Tranquility will be a defining legacy and a saving grace for all mages. He surrounds himself with Tranquil and conducts unusual experiments, once taking a mage destined for Tranquility and provoking them into becoming an abomination. I think he wanted to see what happened if the Brand was used on a corrupted mage. We never found out. I killed the monster killed, though not before it tore apart a Tranquil assistant.

  I stopped trying to understand Alrik and his methods; Bethany was always the inquisitive, smart twin. I just know how to hit things. Although I miss my sister, a part of me is glad she didn’t make it to Kirkwall. A life in the Circle here would have destroyed her.

 “We have a visitor,” Cullen announces, sheathing his sword. He nods to someone standing in the shade of an archway behind me and I look over my shoulder. I groan. Caelestis comes forward as I also put down my sword. It feels like a punishment to have the Tranquil shadowing me everywhere; Alrik thought it would benefit me to have my own assistant, but I think Alrik chose Caelestis deliberately. I have to look at him every day and remember what I did to him. It's sick.

  “Ser Carver,” the Tranquil holds out a letter.

  “I told you to leave those in my room,” I say with annoyance.

  “This just arrived from the desk of Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen. I reasoned it could be of sufficient import requiring your immediate attention.”

  I accept the letter from Caelestis while Cullen looks at me like I’ve been accused of a high crime. “We knew each other before I joined the Order,” I tell him, deciding to leave out how the Guard-Captain and I also can’t stand each other. Especially after Aveline sabotaged my efforts to join the city guard. I had no choice but to join in the Tethras & Hawke expedition in lieu of that.

  I break the wax seal and unfold the paper. “This is definitely from Aveline, that’s for sure.” I hold up the page. “All it says is ‘ _We need to talk_ ’.”

  Cullen chuckles. “You better hurry, then. I haven’t known anyone who breaks good news with that line.”

  “I doubt even Aveline appreciates punctuality over hygiene,” I say. “ I’ll take a bath first.”

  Cullen mops at the sweat beading down his heat-beaten face with one of his gloved hands, leaving streaks of grit on his skin. “I’ll join you.”

  “Take my things with you,” I command Caelestis, who’s been standing by like a statue. “See that the scratches on my shield are buffed. Then… I don’t care; do whatever you want. I don’t want you hanging around me today.” Anything involving Aveline could potentially involve Garrett, and I can't have any of that getting back to Alrik.

  Once Caelestis is gone, Cullen and I walk to the officers bathing hall in relative silence, our armor clinking and our footfalls echoing off stone. “Is everything right with you, Carver?” Cullen’s voice is shaded in almost fatherly concern. “I don’t mean to presume, but your treatment of that Tranquil is unlike you.”

  “I don’t like being followed around. It’s annoying.”

  “I suppose…”

  He trails off, and I almost leave it at that. It’s easier to not talk about what bothers you, or ails you, or kills you inside; templars should not show weakness, even to fellow templars. But the temptation to talk and confide in someone sets into me, and I trust the captain not to judge unduly. When we enter the wardrobe -- a changing room adjoined to the bath -- we undress from our armor, and I decide to confess what's been bothering me.

  “That Tranquil is Caelestis; my first Brand. Only after I gave him the Rite did Ser Alrik decide I needed an assistant.”

  I tug on the knotted strap of my left pauldron and Cullen steps over to help. I let my hands drop as Cullen relieves me of both pauldrons. This is why knights -- and nobles who fancy themselves knights -- use squires. Taking off heavy armor is like peeling eggshell.

  “You think there’s a reason Alrik picked him,” Cullen talks as he works at his own armor. I notice he’s framed it as a statement, but I nod in affirmation anyway. I pull off my breastplate and set it aside, leaving my underrobe clinging to the flesh between my shoulders and across my chest, soaked with sweat through the cotton layers.

  I don't conceal my resentment. “Ser Alrik wants to hang him over me. It sounds paranoid, but I think Ser Alrik is keeping watch over me, through the Tranquil. I feel their eyes on me whenever they're around. And whenever I see Caelestis, I remember what I did to him. I think Ser Alrik intends it. And then, sometimes I feel… It’s hard to explain."

  I fix my gaze on his blonde head as he tugs off his last boot. He carefully sets it beside its partner, perfectly aligned.  "Have you held the Brand?” I ask.

  He pauses. “Yes.”

  “It has a certain power, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure of your meaning.”

  “Like…” I pause to remember what it felt like to erase a soul's humanity. A simple tool, a single gesture, and the tiny insidious thrill that tightens your gut. “Like you’re a god.”

  “That’s a dangerous feeling,” Cullen murmurs, and we remove our robes and smallclothes in the subsequent silence, until we're moving through a narrow archway, to the chamber housing the bathing pools.

  “Ser Alrik tuts at me like a matron any time I bring up Caelestis and not wanting an assistant, so it’s no use asking to be left alone. It’s the one thing about me he decides to actually be involved in. That’s frustrating me.”

  “And that frustration is being vented in the wrong way,” Cullen says, his stride more clipped than me, spurred ahead by ingrained discipline. His body cuts the dim light with the pale lines of his muscular body, and when he’s angled toward me while stepping into the water, I see a bush of golden hair at the juncture of his thighs -- uncharacteristically unruly for a perfectionist. I wasn’t expecting Orlesian sculpture art, but still.

  “Caelestis could not have asked for this, Carver. It’s--”

  “Unworthy of me?”

  Cullen shoots me a look bordering amusement as I walk into the pool after him, steam instantly clinging to my body like a second skin. Its tiles are enchanted to keep the water at a consistent temperature. Already I can feel the stiff muscles in my calves soften in the heat. “I’ll try better,” I promise the captain. It’s the only thing I can say to satisfy him. But that won’t stop me from shaking Caelestis off my ass when I can; I’ll just do so with less petulance.

 We sit in the hot water for a time, scrubbing our bodies with porous stones until our skin is bright pink. My thoughts return to last night on the docks and my ‘problem’. I observe Cullen, leaned back with his eyes closed; he’s far more like the big brother type than Garrett could ever be. He’s confident and gets second and third looks from half the women in the Gallows and the Circle, so if anyone could help me...

 “Cullen, have you spent coin at the Blooming Rose, or maybe one of the other whorehouses?”

 “What?” He croaks. “The...Rose? Only on business -- that is, official, sanctioned business! When I invested the missing recruits, I mean. I didn’t, hm, use the facilities. The matron there wouldn’t even speak with me.”

  _Probably because you showed up in full templar regalia so no one could possibly mistake you for a man with human needs._

 “So you’ve never slept with a whore?” I ask again, trying to determine if he can still be useful.

 “Maker, Carver, why are you asking me this?”

 “I’m wondering how discreet they are. And how clean.”

 He seems to literally look around for a way out of this conversation. “I’m not qualified to be asked this.”

 “Cullen, you’re about the only person I trust enough to ask.”

 “Well… it isn’t a secret that men and women of the Templar Order visit the Rose. I would not stake my reputation on their ability to conceal their clientele. But then, I am an officer and prone to more scrutiny.”

 “So you’ve never used a whore, not once?”

  “I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

  I grin. “Come on, who gets to beard your dwarf? Some starry-eyed recruit?”

  He warns me with squint, but looks too uncomfortable to be taken seriously. “You're speaking to your captain, Carver.”

  “Sorry. Have you fucked anyone or anything in recent memory, _ser_.”

  He kicks his foot out at me and misses. “I’m not answering questions about my sex life!”

  “Fair enough,” I say, grinning. “But I still need advice.”

  “Not on…these matters.”

  “We didn’t take vows of chastity, Cullen. No need to be so prudish. Even you must get frustrated. I want to know how to go about relieving that.”

  Cullen lifts his hand from the water. “Well, there’s always…” He curls his fingers and makes an obscene gesture.

  I burst out laughing. “If that was all anyone needed, the human race would have died out centuries ago. I’m talking about having sex, with another person, and not needing to worry about reputation, or, um, attachments. Do you have any secrets of the brotherhood like that for me?”

  Cullen gives me an odd, lingering look before slowly answering. “Yes, there are such practices in nearly every military body. Among… the brothers, as you say. Your record shows you were a soldier before this, at Ostagar. Did this, ah, issue not come up?”

  “I wasn’t a soldier in Ferelden long enough for venting to be an issue.” There were tramps who followed the army caravans, spreading their legs among the tents night and day, but I was more interested in my training for the upcoming battle with the darkspawn. (Also keeping my bits safe from crotch rot.) I wait on Cullen for an answer, but he’s busy chewing his bottom lip. “So can you help me?”

 “Well…uh...” He rubs one of his shoulders, looking down at the water. His face has gone beet red and the steamy water might not be responsible.  “I am… I suppose I should be, um, flattered that you trust me with this, but… humm… I value our friendship and wouldn’t… well, I may have dabbled as a youth but I’m not, uh, that is, my interests lie exclusively with... women.” He practically mumbles by then end, and I squint at my friend and we stare at each other for a long minute.

  “Cullen, what are you talking about?”

  He looks up as if startled, his gaze wavering uncertainly. “You weren’t -- I thought -- I-I don’t know.”

  The flush creeps down his neck and blossoms across his chest as my eyes widen. “You think I want to fuck you!” I put a hand on my forehead in disbelief. “Really, Cullen? Really?”

 “You were the one who asked!”

 “That’s not what I was asking!”

 The man shifts uncomfortably. “Well, then what are we talking about?”

 “Not about me. Let’s talk about your promiscuous misadventures.”

 “I wasn’t promiscuous--”

  My grin is fierce. “How many cocks did you ‘dabble’ with, exactly?”

  I stand up in the water.

  "Carver, no. What are you doing?"

  “Now that I know your secret, I must have you!”

 I make a grab at him and Cullen throws out his hands, splashing me, and I laugh, trying to get a grip on his slippery arms. “No!” He yells, half laughs. "Leave me be! T-This is undignified!"

 “But you’re so dreamy! Dabble me, captain!”

 “No, Carver! Ow! That’s going to bruise!”

 After tussling back and forth and for a few minutes, Cullen yields by climbing out of the pool. With a breathless grin at my victory, I follow him out of the water.

 “Well, that was mortifying,” he says, shaking his head, looking incredulous to have been horsing around like a boy. 

 “You thought I was coming onto you. Now we're even.”

 He chuckles as we disappear into the bathing alcoves. Narrow as they are shallow, these tiny rooms fit a cabinet of oils, pastes, poultices, and a buffet of ewers of differently scented water and oils. I dip my hands into a basin of magically chilled water and splash myself with it, enjoying the stinging cold against my overheated skin. I take my time grooming since Cullen is notoriously slow with how he styles his hair. Not that he’d admit to the vanity.

 “I’m sorry I couldn’t advise you,” Cullen offers when we meet again in the wardrobe. The man seems to be back in strict control of himself again. His complexion has evened out at least.

 I flash him a half grin. “It was so worth asking.” 

 “I could review the records of eligible ladies, perhaps arrange patrols for you to introduce yourself.”

 How badly do I wish he’s joking, but Cullen is watching my reaction with earnest. I finish putting on clean trousers and reach for a linen tunic. “Is that offer meant to be revenge for almost drowning you?”

 “You seem in need of true company, not a tumble. I can think of several suitable--”

 “No thanks,” I say sharply, pulling on my underrobe.  “You’re a fine captain but I think you’d make a horrific matchmaker.”

 Cullen seems thoughtful. “I recall you spending a deal of attention on a young brunette, during your training. Ser Wendell?”

 “Abelone Wendell.”

 “Yes.” Cullen raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Well?”

 “What?”

 “Ser Wendell is an attractive woman. I remember her being steady with a bow.”

 “Okay, that you even factor that in says more about you than her.”

 I briefly consider the suggestion. Abelone, Georg, and I had been friends during our time as recruits -- what seems long enough ago that I'm uncertain how it stands between Abelone and I now. It’s been weeks since I’ve even seen her in passing though I know she’s now a guard in the tower of magi. That type of distance might make approaching her less awkward, but...

 I shake my head. “When I think of Abelone it’s like thinking of my--of a sister. I’ve no reason to think she sees me differently, either.”

 “Time could change that,” Cullen says. “Time changes everything.”  

**~~-+-~~ **

 I arrive at the Viscount’s Keep in the late afternoon, no closer to deciding how I’ll be rid of my virginity. I’d like to be done with the matter with much delay. While it hangs over me, I feel like the relationship with Isabela can't truly begin. But I'm wary to act hastily; I can’t have more rumors spreading about me around the barracks. This requires careful thought and prudent planning if I want to have a long and prosperous career with the templars. 

  _Focus, Carver. You’re on duty._

Not knowing what Aveline’s summons is about, I thought it best to arrive in formal armor, at least as a strong reminder of whom I represent. And it doesn’t hurt that the uniform gets attention. Every Lord Ponce and Lady Nitwit milling in the Keep’s reception hall makes a point to acknowledge me as I pass through. I get a lot of ‘ser’ and sometimes just a moment of eye contact. Both make the point being that the nobility acknowledges Knight-Commander Meredith’s greater authority and influence, and that respect trickles down to soldiers like me.

 I admit I like the idea of arrogant nobles ingratiating themselves to a former mercenary and foreign 'bumpkin'. It’s just too bad I have to smile back when I’d rather give them the finger.

 As I reach the Guard Captain’s office, Guardsman Donnic is leaving it in a foul mood. “Guardsman,” Aveline calls after him in a stern voice, appearing in the doorway. When she notices me she retreats into her office.

 I follow her, shutting the door behind us. “Did I come at a bad time?”

 She paces over the rug in front of the desk, agitation apparent in her bunched shoulders. “Sorry you saw that,” she says. “My term as captain has not been popular. But you get used to it.”

 “Wasn’t that Donnic?”

 Aveline stops pacing, facing me with a frown. “We’re not here to discuss my guards.” She takes a seat on the corner of her desk, tightly crossing her arms. “I’m interested in talking about what you’ve been up to. You’re making a name for yourself in the templars.”

 I can’t tell if she’s genuinely making nice with me or just laying out the groundwork for a lecture. “And you’re earning one, Captain.”

 “Am I now?”

 I hesitate. Now who’s not being nice, I chide myself. “Just be careful,” I say, looking around the tidy room. “The order would be more than willing to… assume more authority for protecting the city.”

 “That’s not how it works,” she exasperates.

 “Not yet.”

 “You’ve grown up, Carver. I’m glad you've found a place for yourself.”

 “It’s not the city guard, but it’ll do.”

 Aveline sighs. “Carver... this wasn’t the place for you.”

 “No, it’s all right. It is.” She smiles at me faintly, almost in disbelief. “So, Guard-Captain Aveline; what is it you need me for?”

 “It’s about Gascard duPuis; he’s gone missing. Would you know something about that?”

 I don’t look as surprised as she seems to have hoped for, but it's enough. I should have anticipated someone would notice Gascard’s vacancy from Hightown at some point. Aveline would naturally pick up that thread.

 “Who?” I blink at her.

 “Don’t bother. I know you and Hawke raided his home.”

 “Then interrogate _him_.”

 “Hawke won’t help. He treats me no better than a templar, no offense. We’ve barely spoken since I took office.”  Aveline looks pained and I glance away from her, only offering a shrug. “DuPuis is my responsibility, Carver. If a citizen is accused of a crime, that’s not for a templar to judge. I won’t ignore the Knight-Commander undermining the status quo.”

 “The templars had nothing to do with it. Emeric asked for help on his own.”

 She studies me. “Would you tell me if he were dead?”

 I'm being asked to pick between telling the truth and being dragged into Meredith’s office for compromising her trust. The choice is too easy. I shrug again. “Maybe he went on vacation. I hear Seheron is nice this time of year. The jungle natives love tourists.”

 Aveline’s eyes harden. “Alright, Carver. I’ll draw my own conclusions. I thought you’d want the chance to speak for yourself.”

 “Really. You didn’t just want a templar you could vent at, because the Knight-Commander has more important things to do than stand here listening to an asinine argument about who gets to keep the city safe?”

  I expect her to bite my head off but she stares at me with a bit of wonder. “Emeric is dead,” I add.

 Aveline loosens her arms, letting her hands fall to the desk by her hips. “I heard. It’s a shame how it happened. Were you two close?”

  “He was a good templar.”

 “He was certainly devoted to what he believed,” she says diplomatically.

 “He was a headache. You can say it.”

 Aveline has the shame to faintly blush beneath her freckles. “Not every random murder is connected. The ‘Butcher of Lowtown’ is just a boogeyman.”

 “The Butcher?”

 “The Kirkwall Killer. The name changes; fear doesn’t. I think people actually feel safer iwhen they convince themselves there’s only one deranged person that needs worrying about.”

 “Have more women gone missing?” I ask, catching the note of discomfort hiding behind her guarded tone. “Wealthy. Noble. Like Ninette de Carrac?”

 “Bloody flames, not this again.”

 The door to the office opens when a guardswoman enter. “S’cuse me, Captain. That elf is in the Viscount’s private garden again.”

 “Thank you, Brennan. We’ll be right there.” 

  With a sigh, Aveline gestures that I come with her, then leads me through parts of the Keep I’ve never been in. There’s a heavy presence of security as we venture into the wing of private living quarters; after the murder of the Viscount’s son, Seneschal Bran had doubled the patrols of bodyguards. Two such guards are waiting for us by the veranda overlooking the garden.

 The place is a huge square of sculpted shrubs and rows of flowers carefully cultivated into patterns and designs between the brick-laid pathways. The stink of flowers is so thick I feel like I snorted a perfume bottle.

 “Where is she?” Aveline asks when we approach the sentries.

 One guard sighs. “When we announced that you were coming, she hid.”

 “Maybe she left,” the other guard offers.

 “I heard giggling from behind the petunias a few minutes ago.”

 Aveline shakes her head. “I don’t have time for her games. I have inspections all day.”

 “There,” I say, pointing at a fountain. When I speak up, the feminine face that’s peeking from behind the statue centerpiece sticks out a little further, and I see the tips of two long ears protruding from her short black hair. There’s a giddy squeal, and then she’s skipping over to the veranda.

 “Carver!” She throws her thin arms around my neck with the help of a little hop, planting a kiss on my cheek.

 “Merrill--” Aveline begins.

 “Elgar’nan, has it been so long; I hardly recognize you!” Merrill exclaims while still hanging from my neck. “You look bigger and scarier than I remember.” She looks into my face with her large green eyes. “It is you, isn’t it Carver?”

 “It’s me. Good to see you, Merrill.”

 “Make sure she gets home,” Aveline tells me while already striding away, abandoning me to an uncertain fate.

 

~~**-+-** ~~

 “It’s so nice to have company,” Merrill chats as she serves me a cup of water. “I get a lot of rats -- who are lovely, I’m not complaining -- but it’s much nicer to have someone to talk to who can talk back.” She sits across from me, primly on the edge of her seat, smiling.

 I have no idea what I’m expected to say to that, so I put my cup against my lips. I let the cloudy water touch my lips only enough to wet them. You couldn’t pay me to actually drink from any of the Alienage wells. “What is it you do now, Merrill? Do you have a job?”

 “I tell stories to the elves sometimes. Most don’t even know the names of our Creators. I’m not very good at it; not like Hahren Paivel. But the elves deserve to know where we all came from, even if I can’t do the deep, scary voices. Oh! But that isn’t a job, is it; no one pays me to do that. I’m sorry.”

 I smile. “Merrill, it’s fine.” The girl is as sweet as I remember. It’s nice to see life in the slums hasn’t changed that.

 “Well, after what happened the last time, I haven’t told stories lately. Maybe I should learn a trade. Is knitting very hard? I could make sweaters for the alley cats. They’re so scrawny.”

 “Merrill, wait, what was it that happened?”

 “Oh. That.” She absently touches her cheek, her fingers tracing the tattooed lines on her skin. “I’ve been asked many times about my vallaslin, so I told the children the story behind it. When a Dalish child comes of age, they get the blood writing as proof they can bear the responsibilities of an adult. It takes courage and bravery, so they liked the story. But… the next day we found a little boy with his face cut like red ribbons. He’d tried to tattoo himself.”

 I try to hide my grimace. “That’s not your fault.”

 “I’m not a healer like Anders; I couldn’t fix it. He’ll be scarred all his life.” Her slender fingers curl into a ball against her cheek. “I did that to him.”

 There’s something wrong about seeing Merrill sad. It’s like seeing a flower stomped into mud _._ I gather her hand from her cheek and hold it. “You’re trying to help them. It doesn’t always work according to plan, but that doesn’t mean you stop trying. Um, try harder, if anything.”

 Maker, I’m no good at this advice stuff.

 She looks at my hand that’s swallowed hers, cheeks pink. “Thank you. Oh, but I’m a terrible host. We should be talking about you! Um, shouldn’t I?” She reaches for a clay pitcher with her other hand. “More, um, water?”

 “Actually, I probably should get back to the Gallows.”

 The moment the words leave my mouth, the disappointment in her deep green eyes hit me like a pang in my chest.

 “Oh,” she says softly. “I thought… I had hoped…” She pulls her hand from mine, leaving my palm feeling cooler without the touch of her warm skin. “Nevermind. I’m being silly. You’re right, you should go. Put out fires. Save people.”

 Forehead creased with confusion, I angel myself closer, trying to get her to look at me again. “Merrill?”

 Am I imagining this?

I always found the elf to be cute, unbearably so, and I used to muddle my way through conversations with her. But I never thought she took me -- anything, actually -- seriously. No, I’m imaging the way her gaze is stuck to my lips. I wouldn’t be thinking like this if Isabela hadn’t planted the suggestion.

  _'It doesn’t have to be a stranger,' she said._

 “I know you have an important life now, things to do,” Merrill says in a shrinking voice.

 I lean forward as to hear her better, and she lifts her chin, tilting back her head, and I catch the smallest movement of her tongue behind her teeth. “I’m hardly important to anyone,” I say, only half-joking

 “Now you’re the one being silly.”

She arches toward me, slowly, like a lazy cat basking in sunlight. Her lips brush against mine, making my heart skip a beat. I'm not confident that I should kiss her back, even after she’s closed her eyes, leaving her lips parted. A peculiar sensation of affection and dread arrests me. I had wondered what it would be like to touch and taste this elf. Everything about her petite body could fit inside the span of my palm; pert breasts, gentle hips, the shy curve of her buttocks. I think I could encircle her waist with my hands and touch the tips of my fingers together.

 But there’s something perverse about wanting to pin such a fragile body beneath me; I think she’d split in two if I forced my cock to fit. The idea of spearing her had been good material to wank off to when I’d first met the elf, but that’s all it ever was. And after Garrett had dragged me into the Hanged Man that day Isabela introduced Lucky’s face to the bartop, I’d forgotten those feelings about Merrill.

 All that aside, what really stops me is the trust in Merrill’s eyes. She looks at me believing I won’t hurt her and that innocence makes the idea of using her for my own selfish needs repugnant. She’s been a friend, and I can’t imagine sleeping with her now any more than I can stomach the idea of tossing her away afterward. I think Isabela would even agree that her pet “Kitten” isn’t the answer to the problem.

“Oh,” the elf utters softly, blushing with embarrassment as the silence stretches on.

 She seems to sense what’s going through my mind and I try to be quick about reassuring her. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” I tell her, earnest that she understand that much. “It’s… well, I’m… in love with someone.”

 Merril’s eyes widen with a half yelp. “Oh!” She smiles, at once giddy. “That’s wonderful! I’m happy for you, really happy. Who is she? When can I meet her? I promise not to babble.”

 “It’s Isabela, Merrill.”

 Merrill shrieks before clamping a hand over her own mouth.

 It takes me a few minutes to convince Merrill that, no, Isabela is not going to challenge her to a duel. I almost mention that one little kiss is nothing compared to what my girlfriend has asked me to do, but I’m not sure that would actually make anything better. And I’d rather no one know.

 “ _Ir abelas_ ,” Merrill says once she’s calm. “I know I shouldn’t have done that. Especially with a human. If my clan found out, it’d be such a scandal. The Keeper’s eyes would pop from her head! Not literally. But she’d be very surprised.”

 “Why does it matter I'm human?”

 “Oh. It’s… nothing! Dalish are expected to be with other Dalish, and keep the People alive. But it’s just me here, and I didn’t realize I felt so lonely, until you… until you were here.” She smiles sheepishly.

 “I know what that feels like. No harm done though.”

“Friends are tricky. I’ve never been good at making them. Keeping them is harder! Varric is always writing, and Bianca gets so jealous. Hawke is usually busy killing people. Or helping people. I’m not sure which at the moment; it changes all the time. But he helps me when he can. I think I might’ve given up and gone back to the clan if it weren’t for him.”

 “What’s he helping you with?” I ask, genuinely curious.

 Merrill’s face lights up. “I’ll show you! Oh, it’s so exciting.” She leaps up from her seat and hops like a bird into the next room before I’ve finished standing up. There’s no door to the other room, so I walk straight in. The place is a box that thinks it’s a bedroom, hardly big enough for its narrow, straw-stuffed mattress and an oversized mirror leaning in one corner. Merrill plops down on the edge of the bed with a creak of its wood frame. She faces the mirror with her chin framed in her hands, a fond look on her face. “So?” She sighs, like a girl in love. “What do you think? Beautiful, isn’t it?”

 I look around but there’s only the bed and busted mirror. “Are you talking about that hunk of glass?”

 Merrill sits up straight and gestures to the mirror. “This is an Eluvian, an ancient artifact of my People. One of my clan found it in a Fereldan ruin.”

 I study the mirror. The glass is cracked and cloudy, reminding me of tarnished silver. “Shouldn’t it reflect the room?”

 “It’s not that kind of mirror. This one’s magic. Or will be.”

 I warily step back. “Magic?”

 Merrill catches the suspicious note in my voice, dropping her hand from her face. “It’s not dangerous, I promise!” She moves to the mirror’s side and touches it, letting her fingers trail down. “I purified it. With blood magic. The mirror won’t hurt anyone. There’s no need to be worried.”

 I stare at her, dumbfounded by the logic. “That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve heard anyone say. Blood magic can’t do any good, Merrill.”

 “Blood magic is a tool. Just as the Eluvian is a tool. Neither are more evil or dangerous than a hammer or a sword. Hawke agrees with me. He’s the only one who understands what I’m trying to do. He’s even helping me restore it.”

 I have to remind myself to take a deep breath so I don’t say something I’ll regret. I don’t take another step either way, a little worried I might resort to shaking the elf to get her to see reason. But there’s something else wrestling inside of me; learning that Garrett’s been in this room, helping a blood mage, proving to me again that my brother isn’t who I thought. “Merrill, must ask you something and it’s important, so I need the truth.” She nods, but her eyes shine at me petulantly. She’s angled herself by the mirror as if protecting it from me. I take another deep breath. “Have you taught my brother blood magic? Has he been corrupted by a demon?”

 “What?” Her eyes seem to grow impossibly large. “No, Hawke hasn’t asked me to teach him anything.”

 I’m not sure if I believe her. I’m not sure if I trust myself to. “I have to go,” I mumble, backing away to the front door.

 Merrill follows me, wringing her hands. “Will you come back? Not right away, but maybe later, when you feel like talking again?”

 I stop to think before answering, the door’s rusted latch in my hand.

 “Carver?”

 I don’t want to lie to her.

 “It’s not a good idea, Merrill.” Opening the door, I step out into swirling dust and the stench of nearby foundries, to the sounds of kids noisily playing and the wind ruffling the leaves of the Vhenadahl.  “This should probably be goodbye.”

~~**-+-** ~~

 I have to pass through Lowtown on my way from the Alienage. Without intending to, I find myself standing in the street outside the Hanged Man. The work day has reached its end for most, and I lose count of the many times the tavern door opens and shuts for dock workers, hawkers from the markets, soldiers in civvies, and beggars looking to turn over their day’s wages.

 “What do you have to fear by going inside?” A gravelly voice says from behind me.

 I cross my arms, resenting the accusation. “I’m not afraid.”

 “Nor should you be.” The elf steps in front of me, the top of his white head barely reaching my shoulder. “I do not claim to know what this must be like for you, but I find your conviction to face it admirable.”

 “Not everything is about Garrett,” I snap, more forceful than I mean to.

 Fenris doesn’t flinch, or even blink. “I wasn’t referring to Hawke.”

 “You--oh.” The tension in my arms slacken. “Oh, I am such an asshole.”

 To this Fenris chuckles, somehow without smiling.

 “I’m just used to people acting like Garrett is the center of everything, including my own life.”

 “You seem to be doing most of the work.”

 “I’m not obsessed with him, if that’s what you’re hinting.”

 “No, you just can’t shut up about him.”

 I smirk. “If we can’t bitterly commiserate about my ass of a brother, we’ll have nothing to talk about.”

 Fenris only grunts back, so I must be imagining the fleeting impression of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

 Dust settles in the streets as most people reach their homes or homes away from home; Fenris glances at his, as the door to the Hanged Man opens. It’s gotten dark enough that the light from inside cuts yellow across the dirt street. We observe a dark-haired barmaid come out with a lit wick on a long pole to light the lamps in front of the tavern. There’s a slight twinge in my shoulders when I see her, a piece of me hoping it was Isabela.

  _I may as well hope for a fish to walk out of the sea before Isabela willingly leaves a bar._

 Maybe the elf noticed my reaction, because he cocks his head. “Would you like me to go in and look around for you?”

 “Look?” I shift inside my armor. “For what?”

 “For your woman.”

 “I don’t have a, a woman, Fenris.”

 The elf shakes his head. “Pathetic.” He regards me, truly, with pity. “I see the wench’s prattle is true enough.”

 “Wha, wench, what wench?”

 He snorts, as if doubting my confusion. “Your woman.”

 “Isabela?” I blurt, putting the two things together. “Isabela isn’t a wench.”

 “It was an attempt to be polite.”

 “Is that another insult? I can’t tell.”

 Fenris looks almost pained by my response. “Now I don’t know which of you to pity more.” He looks away, lifting his fang-tipped gauntlet to brush the hair hanging in his eyes. A few seconds pass, as he thoughtfully stares down the street. His voice drops to a husky mutter. “I... suppose I could do worse.”

 “Okay, if you’re going to look off into the distance saying mysterious things, I’m leaving.”

 “Your woman invaded my home this morning. You do not know this?”

 “Uh, this morning?” That puzzles me since Isabela and I had our fun on the docks until nearly dawn, before parting ways. She must have gone straight to Hightown afterward. “How should I know what Isabela is going to do next, ever?”

 He grunts. “She came asking for help. For you.”

 “I don’t need any help. What could she possibly want you to do for -- oh. Maker, no. She told you."

 This time Fenris smiles.

 By the time my mind stops reeling, Fenris has lead me halfway through Hightown. I stare at the side of the elf’s pale hair, the shape of a resolute jawline, while he tugs my arm like a leash meant to keep me moving. It doesn’t take me long to figure out where we’re going.

 “Wait,” I continue to stammar. “Come on, Fenris… this is a mistake. Isabela couldn’t have--” Okay, she would have “--probably didn’t mean it. She’s always making jokes. You know her. Can we just stop for one minute -- ow, at least let me go, before someone sees us like this.”

 “These are servant passages; at the height of the slave trade they concealed hundreds of elves. No one will see.”

 Despite his claim, he lets go of me. Small favors. At least I won’t have to worry about even a servant getting curious about a templar and an exotic Tevinter elf getting hands-on in the alleyways.  

 “Fenris, I don’t know what Isabela told you about me to convince you--”

 The elf’s deep green eyes are serious. “I owe her a great deal of coin.”

 “What?”

 “I thought I could win it back.”

 “Okay,” I breathe out, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Okay, let me lay this out so I can understand it: Isabela asked you to...uh, be with me, however that works, and in return she’d forgive your gambling debt?”

 He nods.

 “Why would you agree to that?”

 “Varric would not loan me the coin.”

 “Maker… No, I meant why would you--I mean, with me?”

 My preconceptions of the tough, abrasive elf have been given a hard rattle. Fenris is the only friend of Garrett's who didn't write me off when my family hierarchy became clear; when it couldn't have benefited him to be nice to me, still treated me with respect. Leading up to the Deep Roads expedition, I had the impression we were going to be friends. I can't help but wonder now if Fenris had different designs. I don't know how I feel about it, I just know I wish Isabela hadn't sprung this on me.

 “You want me to flatter you?”

 "No," I say, and we start walking again. Good, because I think my face is hot enough to melt off and the breeze wafting through the alleys is the only thing stopping that from happening. “It’s just that we’re... This wouldn't, can't, count. We're both men.”

 “You have mastered the art of observation," he responds dryly.

 “Just don’t tell me you fucked my brother too,” I half-joke.

 Fenris turns on me sharply, his hand connecting with my chest. After a few moments spent staring at each other, and me holding my breath, Fenris drops his arm and steps back, his teeth clenched in a mute snarl. “I would not allow myself to be sullied by the touch of a mage.”

 "I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."

 I hear myself breathing just slightly harder as relief sets in, relieved he hadn’t reached through my armor to snatch a souvenir.  “You ask why I would agree to a night with you,” he says, narrow shoulders relaxing. “I will say this: you are a decent man.”

 “Decent. _That_ ’s the qualifier.”

 “It is not a trait I come by often. You are honorable, as well. I have seen how you try to do what is right instead of what could be easy; you joined the templars when your brother is a mage. This matters to me far more than what lies between your legs.”

 I stare at him, a life of assumptions thrown in my face.

 Growing up in Ferelden, the backcountry of the rest of civilization, we don’t talk about sexuality much. Even in the cities an indiscreet liaison between two women or men is treated as a scandal. Father never explained it to us children, other than what part goes where and to keep our knickers on (which was just one of the first of father's rules Garrett has broken). I’m not passing blame, exactly, but being sheltered from the world stunted out view of it, and I'll admit I never questioned what I saw as status quo. Magic already made my family more than different; it wasn't hard to understand that being different is a bad thing. Mother and father made it plain that we were supposed to be a normal family, and 'normal' was a very specific box to squeeze into.

  Forcing an awkward cough, I break the silence. “You didn’t say anything about my pretty eyes.”

 Fenris touches his mouth, maybe checking to make sure he doesn’t smile. “Must I mention the obvious?” His voice almost seems to rumble when he tries to speak quietly -- shyly? -- and something about this exchange makes my heart jump.

  _Maker, we’re flirting!_

 Isabela may have been sincere about sending ‘help’. The elf is extremely private, to the point of being a recluse. He wouldn’t tell anyone if we were, uh, intimate. I have no clue how sleeping with a man qualifies in Isabela’s twisted mind as me losing my virginity. Is it just about sticking my dick into any hole, man or woman?

 My brother has always shown his disdain for little boxes, so comfortable with himself that he can be with a woman and then a man and it doesn't change who he is. The confidence is enviable, and something else we do not share. In Ferelden I fit into that box. Without one, I'm bereft of defenses. It's new, scary, but...

 Maybe I don't need a box. Maybe, just once, I can do without. 

 “Then... let's get going,” I say, willing enough to find out.

 “How should we begin; kissing perhaps?” Fenris says this as if offering me a glass of wine. I even glance at the bottle in his hand to make sure I didn’t hear wrong, but it’s empty.

 When I look back up at him my gaze sticks to the tattooed lines on his chin. “Do we have to?”

 “No.” He casually tosses the wine bottle into the bedroom’s empty fireplace and I hear it smash. “We could do nothing at all. I keep a deck of cards, if you’ve a mind to play.”

 He probably means it, but I feel like a tit that he feels he should offer. “I don’t know what I want. Maybe it’s best you don’t ask.”

 Fenris narrows his eyes at me slightly, then gives the barest nod and begins to undress. He slides off his gauntlets, then unthreads his belt and lets it drop to the floor. I’ve only just gotten my armor off when he peels out of his dark leggings and pulls his shirt over his head.

 “Just a moment,” I tell him, staring hard at my tremulous fingers while they untie the front of my robe. I’ve been naked in front of half-strangers daily as a templar-recruit, sharing baths and barracks. Stripping down with Fenris shouldn’t make me feel any different, and that part really doesn’t; it’s not knowing what to expect next that has my pulse racing.

 I bend over, pushing my trousers down then stepping out of them, and face the elf. He never lit any candles when we got into his chamber and the sun has set since we arrived. The room's few bare windows let in the evening blue from outside, allowing me to see him make standing by the bed. He doesn't move, but I feel the weight of his eyes appraising my nudity. There's the scar on my leg, some other trophies etched across my skin, but he should have nothing to complain about, I think. My body has been beaten into prime shape by the Order's rigorous standards.   

 During the last minutes of the walk here, I decided to try imagining Fenris as a female in case I run into any trouble getting this done. But as my gaze follows the lines of his markings delineating the contours of his toned and sinewy body, that would be impossible: Fenris is very much a male.

 “Do I look strange to you?”

 I didn't mean to stare, but neither of us is making a move. It'd be easier on me if he wasn't acting so damn nonchalant. I make a lame gesture toward him, hoping to break the tension. Well, my tension. “Those markings; are they everywhere?”

 “You are welcome to come and see,” he answers in that quiet rumble.

 I come over to the bed, reminding myself to breathe like a normal person. Fenris doesn’t move, even when I’m standing in front of him. The man may intimidate me more than Isabela. Nervously, I find something to say. “Whatever happened to that Magister, the one we cleared out this mansion looking for? Is he still looking for you?”

 “He knows where to find me,” Fenris says darkly. “Danarius has chosen not to, for now. It is wise for him to reconsider attacking me outright, as the bodies of his dead slave hunters can attest. But I have no doubt we will face each other again. I will go to him if I must.”

 "Danarius would be an idiot to fuck with you.” Considering everything I've seen Fenris do, I believe it. My frankness -- and honesty -- takes him back.

 “Thank you?”

 “Sure,” I say, reaching up to rub the back of my head.

 “So this is a tattoo where you are from," Fenris says, catching a view of the ink scrawled over one of my shoulder blades.

 “Hm, right.” I twist at my torso, so he can see it in better lighting. “A mabari. Remember?”

 “Yes. For strength.” His eyes shift back to mine. "I hoped you had been joking."

 “Nope,” I half-grin. “Want to hear it bark?” He looks so disgusted by that, I laugh. “Hey, just remember you said you could do worse.”

 Fenris scowls, at first. Then I feel his fingers graze my hip. I try not to tense up as the touch dips into the groove that rides my hipbone. His fingers comb into the bush between my legs. I swallow thickly, and there is a perceptible shift of his eyes, watching the bob in my throat. Words would just stick in my mouth, so I don’t say anything. His fingers delve further, finding my limp shaft nestled in the dark curls. There's a small pause and a grumble I assume has to do with the 'limp' part.

 “Sorry,” I whisper nervously.

 His large eyes flick back up to mine, their usual ferocity muted by desire but no less predatory. I have to lick my lips again, wondering if he expects me to touch him back. He’s fondling me with purpose, trying to get me hard. It would be fair for him to expect the same. Reluctantly, I reach for his groin. But Fenris shakes his head and releases my still-soft cock. “If the bed would be more comfortable, it is yours.”

 I hesitate. “What are you, ah, we going to do? On the bed. Together.”

 “Nothing unenjoyable.”

 The remark causes me to glance between his legs, where a soft but noticeably aroused cock droops against the smooth sac tucked beneath. I’d heard elves are hairless, but this is my first close look. "We do not need to continue,” he offers, interpreting my pause.

 “I’m fine.”

 To prove it I lay down on the bed. Gazing up at the bed’s velvet canopy, I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I cross my arms above my head, sharing the stack of lumpy pillows. A few moments later I feel Fenris' weight sink into the bed when he kneels by my feet. “Lift your knees,” he says.

 I comply, trying to resist how vulnerable it feels to obey, and highly aware of my sac as it slide into the new space between my thighs. Fenris' weight shifts closer with the grazing tickle of his skin on the inside of my legs. I glance past my torso, to see him lowering himself onto his belly. I look away before his face meets with my crotch.  

 “I will stop if you tell me so.”

 When I don’t think to reply, he adds, “I do not take what is not given. I will not be offended.”

 This time I consent with a nod and close my eyes.

 In the excruciating anticipation that follows, my senses feel heightened as if I’d taken a lyrium draught. While on his stomach, Fenris slides his hands up my thighs, grabbing the back of my knees. His fingers are hard as iron as he effortlessly shoves my knees forward, exposing me even further. I almost protest against the handling, but in one fluid act he leans down to nestle his mouth against me, licking and sucking at the low sling of my balls. 

 I groan from unexpected pleasure.

 Minutely, his grip commands my legs further apart. Without pause, he presses his tongue against the clenched ring between my ass. My hips lift a finger-width off the bed as I tense all over, down to my toes. His tongue is a soft, wet tool expertly used to make me jerk against the sheets, embarrassing myself with my own reactions.

 I silently catch my breath when Fenris finally pulls back, a treacherous need aching through my untouched cock. His absent mouth leaves a cooling patch of moisture where his hot breath had been. After lowering my legs until my feet rest on the bed, Fenris pushes himself halfway up between my legs, leaning over my engorged dick.

 At some point I open my eyes and let my gaze wander from the canopy to the elf using his strong fingers to lift my cock from my stomach. I swallow, conflicted if I should watch up to the very moment he begins laving my cock with his tongue, dragging his mouth along the length, thoroughly wetting the shaft. He's in no rush, coaxing the member to full length. When its grown firm enough, Fenris properly fits me into his mouth, sinking several inches down the shaft --more than I thought him capable. He works me with a steady pump of his mouth, keeping a strong grip around the root of me.

 With the moonlight behind him shadows cling to face, yet I can still make out the green of his eyes. His shoulders shift, finding new angles to gorge upon my cock, and his markings seem to flow over his skin like oil on water; unnatural but beautiful. If he were a woman, this would not challenge me. If only.

 I don't know how long it goes on but at last he lets my half-hard cock slip from his mouth. He sits up, his own member jutting from between his hips. My eyes widen, surprised by his own arousal. Fenris’ mouth slants sternly at my expression and turns away his face away. “Why could you not tell me?” He rasps, not looking at me.

"Huh?"

“You are not interested in men.”

 I push myself into sitting up, drawing up one leg to hide the plateaued erection on my stomach. “I thought you knew, that she told you--”

 “ _Fasta vass!_ I would not have agreed had I known.” Fenris turns his back to me, confronting me with the continuing pattern of lines on his body. "She knew." He swings his feet to the floor and stands.

 “Does that matter?” I ask, confused by his reaction.

 “You think it should not bother me, that you’re acting against your will?”

 "No one's forcing me Fenris, but what about you?"

  His shoulders twitch from suppressing the instinct to face me.

  "You were bribed to be here with me," I point out.

  "No, that's not what I--" Fenris starts to correct me, then just shakes his head.

 Knowing I need to be honest if I want to save the moment, I swallow my embarrassment. “It, ah, did feel good, and I never... I didn't expect to feel that way. With another man. You. It's strange that it's you --but not bad. So that's... been a lot to think about, and I probably shouldn't be thinking anything right now, and... Right. Now I'm sounding like Merrill. Interrupt me already."

  "I cannot tell which of us you are trying to convince more."

  "Yes, I'm terrible at this, I noticed. Get back on the damn bed."

  Fenris faces me then, displaying a rare look of genuine surprise. I roll up onto my knees, letting them slightly hang over the edge of the bed. “Come here,” I urge. His eyes harden, but for the briefest instant that I’m sure he thinks I don’t notice, he glances at the dark patch of hair between my legs. I grab my own cock, sliding the skin front to back, pumping some of the length back into the member. This time Fenris’ guard visibly cracks as he openly lowers his gaze to watch my brisk movements. After coaxing my cock into extending several inches, I take my hand away.

 "Come here," I order him.

 The taut muscles in Fenris' stomach tighten in response. I wonder if it's years of muscle memory wanting to obey or if he's surpressing the urge to kill me. The moment passes, and suddenly he's sinking to the floor between my knees, sheathing me in his mouth without ceremony. My breath catches when gives me a hard suck. The ragged sound seems to spur him into groping me, and when his hands find my ass his grip is so hard I tense the muscles to resist bruising.

 Ruthlessly Fenris drags himself back and forth on my shaft, the wild pendulum of sensation forcing me to grab his hair and set a rhythm. The markings down his body flicker in response, but he doesn't protest, doesn't stop. He does slow, letting his tongue take over, and I barely contain a moan.

 When I shut my eyes shut I can visualize Isabela and her perfect tits rocking to this frenetic pace, her dark lips around my wet, blushing cock. The fantasy is more than enough to send of an invogorating rush of pleasure through me, shoving me toward the peak. I could come in this elf's mouth, if I let myself. If this goes on, I'll come. To my own surprise, I'm tempted to.

 “I’m-I’m ready,” I gasp, voice guttering when I try to speak. He doesn't heed me, so I tighten on his hair and guide his mouth off my cock. Fenris' lips appear well-used as he takes a gulp of air. My own bare chest heaves as I chase my breath, and I look down in satisfaction at my hard cock, straight as a polearm.

 Fenris stands, unquestionably aroused himself. “It has been some time, and you are...exceptional.” He’s breathless. “Take your time entering."

 He places a knee on the bed next to me, bending over. I touch his hip to brace myself as I step off the bed, positioning myself behind him. There’s a flare of blue light along the markings and he hisses in pain. “Sorry,” I mumble, moving my hand away. My skin tingles from the lyrium, a sensation strange and familiar.

 I use my thumb to find the crevice between his ass cheeks, trailing down until I feel the ridges of his hole, then grab with both hands, spreading him. At this point, I feel myself begin to wilt. Staring at a man’s asshole, burdened by the expectation I must shove myself into a place the Maker didn’t intend; I feel doused by cold water.

 In spite of the lack of desire, I grab my cock by the base and grip it hard, trying to force it to stiffen back up. With only one hand manuevering Fenris during this, I lose sight of his entrance. I still try for it, shoving my hips forward to probe for the hole, only succeeding in making Fenris grunt in pain from each stab into his flesh. It's just as uncomfortable for me; I’m limp and useless less than a minute later.

 Fenris turns around on his hands and knees and judiciously sucks me back into full arousal. “Maker,” I groan, oblivious to the sanctimony as I thrust into his mouth until I'm hard enough to try again.  “Bend over,” I tell him, and this time Fenris doesn't hesitate.

 He flips onto his stomach and I grab his hips, dragging him to the edge of the bed where I'm standing.  He spreads his knees wider, revealing his entrance and movement of a hand between his thighs as he pleasures himself. I ignore it, in a hurry to be inside him before I go limp.

 Placing the swollen head of my cock against his hole, I use my thumbs to stretch the band of muscle wider, making Fenris grunt loudly.  When I begin to push my hips forward, he utters a loud, raw groan. I can’t tell if I'm hurting him, so I take a small step back. The single hand supporting him against the bed curls into a frustrated as he hoarsely swears in Tevene. He leans back, finding the end of my cock and grinding against it, both desperate and demanding.

 Then, suddenly and without warning, Fenris leaps off the bed. There’s a ring of steel, and I turn my head toward the bedroom door where I pick out Fenris with a greatsword in his hand. “What’s wrong--” I begin, but the elf puts a finger to his lips and I obediently shut my mouth.

 A knock comes through the door, shocking me. It isn't polite like a knuckle rapt but reverberating like a heavy fist. My first thought is it's the evil Magister returning for Fenris. That would explain Fenris' preternatural reflexes; since escaping his master, he's probably ingrained himself to respond to the least hint of a suspicious noise. But then it occurs to me that an all-powerful blood mage wouldn't knock first. I think.

 “It’s me,” Garrett calls through the banded wood. “You weren't at the Hanged Man.” The latch on the handle rattles. “The door is locked.” He sounds astounded.

 Fenris calmly observes my panic as I begin a scramble around the room, hunting for my clothes. I try not to stomp around in one boot while tying laces on my trousers, narrowly avoiding stepping on pieces of armor scattered around the floor. _I would have preferred the Magister._

 “Fenris?” There’s pause on Garrett’s side of the door, long enough that I stop and hold my breath, afraid he heard me. Fortunately, Garrett proves too self-absorbed. “You can’t still be angry with me,” he says, clearly annoyed.

 Fenris makes an irritated noise. Whatever Garrett's referring to, the elf hasn't forgotten it either. “Another time, Hawke. I am… occupied, at present.”

 “You can sober up on the way. I got a tip from Aveline about slavers holed up in the caves on the Wounded Coast. I need your expertise.”

 “It’s fine,” I whisper, shoving my foot into its rightful boot. He shakes his head in response, which I didn’t expect. Fenris loves killing slavers, maybe more than putting down evil blood mages. “Fenris, it’s fine.”

   When Fenris sees that I’m resolved to leave, he resigns himself as well. “Very well, Hawke. I will meet you at the south gate.”

 Garrett doesn't seem happy about waiting around because I hear him impatiently huff. But he does leave, marked by the echo of hurried footsteps down the winged staircase.

 “I’ll talk to Isabela,” I promise Fenris. “Make sure she holds up her side of things.” Fenris doesn't answer, but does make a pained noise when bending to pull on his dark leggings. “Sore?” I wince, sure my thoughtless mashing has bruised him.

 After tugging on his pants, he begins to put on the few pieces of his armor. “I did not complain,” he says.

 “I know, I just hope I didn’t hurt you.”

 Fenris looks up from securing a fanged gauntlet, blinking. “I have endured worse; this is nothing.” That sounds terrible to me, and I frown. Fenris tucks his chin, just short of looking away from me. “Ah, thank you for the concern, however unfounded.”

 Rather than leave when ready, Fenris hangs around while I get inside my armor. He doesn’t offer to break the awkward silence, even when we reach the mansion's front door. Once outside, the cool air feels blessed on my face. I glance around, the cobbled streets dotted by cones of light cast from iron-wrought gaslamps; a luxury in Kirkwall shared with Viscount’s Keep and Chantry. I notice a few house servants, all elves, walking by; they openly gawk at Fenris as they pass. He ignores their very existence.

 “I'd hope we can be friends, Fenris,” I say quietly, trying to push past my awkwardness.

 “I'm not certain what friendship even is.”

“It would probably piss Garrett off if we got along. Maybe that’s enough?” This makes Fenris smile crookedly, so I take it as a good sign. “Then I’ll call on you again.”

 “I--would like that.”

 We linger there for an awkward few moments. “Be careful out there,” I finally say. He nods, and then we do part ways.

 I'm happy to call the night a wash.

~~**-+-** ~~

   “You and Fenris!”

   Isabela’s eyes are wide with scandal. She's loving it. I grit my teeth, not loving it. “Stop enjoying this.”

   She giggles, just giddy with my discomfort. “Tell me one thing: does our former slave enjoy bondage in the bedroom? I always imagined--”

  “I’m not answering questions.” I cross my arms sternly. “I’m angry.”

   Isabela leans from her barstool, holding her mouth by my ear.  “Ohh, yes,” she purrs. “Get angry. I want you to shout, ‘I’m Carver Hawke!’ like you did that time to Varric. That was so hot.”

   I blush. “I don’t care if you mock me, but be fair to Fenris.”

   She sits down. “I always play fair!”

   “You tricked him into... The whole thing was your idea.”

   “I didn’t trick him, I just didn’t mention the boring details.”

   Isabela refills my cup of spiced wine and passes it to me. “Well, it was bloody awkward,” I grumble, taking the cup. “I couldn’t keep it up, so, uh, so nothing happened.”

   “But did you enjoy it?”

  She grins knowingly and I have to make an effort not to choke on a mouthful of wine. “Andraste’s sagging tits!” I cough. “Stop asking. And stop ‘helping’ me. I’ll do this on my own.”

   “Do you kiss the Grand Cleric with that mouth?” She smirks, even while draining her cup.

   “I’m serious, Isabela.”

   “And in all seriousness Carver, don’t be. Sex wasn’t meant to be complicated. It can even be fun.” She pinches my chin, forcing my face toward her, and kisses my frown. “Just don’t take too long. I want my turn with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characteristically Canon: Garrett Hawke maintains a Rival relationship with Fenris (Garrett refers to Fenris' negative reaction to the Book of Shartan companion gift) and Aveline (Hawke refused to help her with courting Donnic).


	12. The Hand That Feeds You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver weighs his loyalty between family and the templars as Ser Otto Alrik draws him into plans that will turn every mage in Thedas Tranquil.

 

 A draught of lyrium sits on Ser Otto Alrik’s desk. The flask is made from brass, copper, and touches of gold filigree. It's smooth sides are etched with tiny, precise symbols--likely a prayer written in ancient language, lifted from a dusty page in the Chant of Light. If I could make myself concentrate I could translate it. Trying to sift through my knowledge now yields the same result as clutching water. The moment I try to order my thoughts, they slip away.

 I can smell the lyrium through the flask’s metal and leather casing. The faint odor of burned ozone remains alive in my nostrils; it isn’t a smell you ever adjust to, kind of like Uncle Gamlen. There’s a niggling itch on the inside of my head, like the tickle at the back of the throat -- impossible to relieve but maddening to not try. My eyes remain fixed on it, absorbed by it, even though it’s torture to do so. And that would be the point. Another game of Ser Alrik's; summoning me to his office in the Tower and then commanding me to stand on ceremony while he ninnies around the room, giving me a very long time to contemplate that cursed draught placed center on the large, orderly desk.

 Nine days, I silently count. Nine days since my last ration of lyrium. Nine, starting from the evening Ser Alrik took away my kit and philter. Behind closed lips I clench my teeth, riding the aches and cramps quivering through my muscle and bone, as much as the resentment for my mentor, who holds an opened book on the other side of the desk. 

 “Canticle one, verse five,” Alrik instructs me with that soft voice of his. 

 Reluctantly raising my eyes, forehead crinkling as I process what he’s asked, a bead of sweat runs down my neck. Otto Alrik watches, blue eyes as electric as veilfire, feeding off the firelight blooming from the room’s braziers. 

 I lick my lips, pretending it’s the long evening of recitation that’s dried them out and not the unnatural thirst stinging my throat. “ _ ‘I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here... _ ”

 Alrik nods along, turning a brown page with a scrape of his thumb. “Fifth Canticle, verse fifteen.”

 “ _ ‘Maker, though I am but one, I have called in Your name. And those come to serve will know Your glory. I... _ um... _ ” _

 “ _ ‘Remembered.’ _ ” He sighs.

 “Remembered,” I repeat, lamely. I knew that. I know I knew that. Mother Bernadette made sure all the initiates had every comma in the Chant of Light memorized before the Night Vigil. My knuckles had been bloodied beyond counting from the mistakes I used to make. My gaze gravitates back to the flask, so I screw my eyes shut so I can think. I dig around inside me for the rest of the words. “ _ ‘I remembered for them. They will see what can be gained, and though we are few against the wind, we are Yours.’ _ ”

 “That’s yet another error this evening,” Alrik says with subdued exasperation. He closes the book and puts it on the desk.

 I try swallowing, tongue thick in my mouth. “I’m a little tired, ser.” He would have to be blind not to have realized that hours ago, days ago. I feel like shit and look the part.

 “Are the many late nights spent in Lowtown taverns to blame?” 

_ Oh, shit… _

 “You have been a busy boy.” Alrik reaches out to caress the cover of the book, tracing and rubbing the raised sunburst stitching. “What draws you to the slums? What is there for you, that the brotherhood and Chantry cannot provide? ” He pauses for a long time, but to my relief, he doesn’t look at me for an answer. Yet. “Templars take care of their own. I would be remiss as your mentor if we did not address the concern I have for your soul, young Carver. Whoring and drinking is not the means we attain a place at the Maker’s side.”

 I don’t say anything, hoping the silence is just another long pause. Nothing good can come from confessing I’ve been regularly leaving the Gallows to see my friends. A magical Tevinter elf, fugitive pirate, and a mobster dwarf probably don’t exist on Alrik’s list of approved personalities (which is probably a very short list, beginning and ending with ‘Tranquil’). 

 It was careless of me to assume Alrik didn’t care what I do with all my free time, I see that now. But he’s never shown this interest before. I had really started to believe that just keeping me out of Karras’ grasp had been Alrik’s endgame. Maybe I am naive; just like Isabela saw in me.

 He weighs my silence. “Any needs you have, Caelestis will attend you. Any needs at all.”

 There's something in his eyes, passing something to me that I don't understand. Or I just don't want to know but already do, deep down. But not nearly deep enough. 

 “Tranquil are a resource only limited only by your understanding of them,” he furthers.

 I nod in return, hoping that’s all that’s needed to move the conversation away from my Lowtown activities. Alrik places his hands on the desk and leans toward me standing a few feet back on the opposite side. “I do wish you would confide in me, Carver. This could be a very long apprenticeship, indeed.”

 My eyes dart to the flask by his arm. I don’t fail to interpret that one. My eyes flick back to his face. “Yes, ser.” The cramps kneading my gut like a spiked mace send a few more drops of sweat racing down my face. My skin is crawling, my blood tingling. Nine days and the withdrawals get worse after each one; I am forced to consider how long until a man goes mad from it, or worse.

 His hand closes around the flask. I almost jump. “Are you happy here, Carver?”

 I can’t stop myself from hesitating. “Yes, ser.”

 “Now, now; that won’t do,” he murmurs, picking up the draught, cradling it in one hand. He turns and the back of his round, bald head is shiny and pink in the warm tones of lamplight.

 Nine days, I shudder again to recall them, strung together by bouts of vomiting, loose bowels, and nightmares that would impress a Grey Warden. Maker, no more.

 “Forgive my lie, Ser Alrik.” 

 He doesn’t move. My thoughts race.

 “I’ve never belonged, before. I didn’t expect it to challenge me like it has. I know I need to trust in the Maker’s plan for me. And in yours.”  _ About as far as I can toss a dwarf _ , I silently add. “I beg forgiveness and am ready to recieving your teachings, with an open heart.”

 He approaches me from around the desk, robes whispering around his slippered feet. Obeying a slight hand gesture from him, I sink down to stand on my knees as if to pray. Replacing the usual figure of Andraste, Otto Alrik stands in front of me. The ambrosial scent of lyrium is stronger, thick as cologne. Shuddering, I must resist a sudden urge to grab his robes and beg for just a drop of lyrium. 

 Anders had plenty to say about lyrium addiction. If he could see me in this state, would he be smug and superior, or look on in pity? 

 “It has been no joy of mine to discipline you,” Otto Alrik says, removing the flask’s leather cap.

_ Like hell it wasn’t.  _

 I focus on breathing, air coming out in choppy bursts, watching him place the opened flask beneath his nose, inhaling deeply. “If denying you lyrium is the way to keep you out of trouble and by my side, was there ever a choice?”

 I take a deep breath, sucking in the sweet, burnt scent of ozone. The itch in my head feels like a hundred needles burrowing down. “N-No, ser.”

 Every day a templar imbibes a lyrium draught, as much to utilize their abilities at the first sign of danger as much as to affirm the strength of the Chantry’s leash. Once I became Alrik’s apprentice, the man assumed total authority over my life. In the interest of producing a good Hunter, Meredith would allow an apprentice to be punished and motivated as the mentor saw fit. Night nine days ago when I was caught returning from The Hanged Man in the dark morning hours, that also included controlling my lyrium ration.

 Alrik licks the lip of the flask, wicking away invisible moisture gathered around the rim. “Mm. I’m glad you understand how difficult this has been for me. We’ll be spending a great deal of time together from now on, so we need that understanding.” 

 My hands become fists, hidden at my sides. “I understand.”

 “Then receive your benediction.” 

He leans down, grabs my chin, then sharply tips the flask against my mouth, pressing past my lips. Lyrium splashes across his fingers and down my neck before I have my mouth open to eagerly, manically, drink what I can catch. Alrik’s blunt fingers dig in hard, holding my head still, while his lips wriggle into a smile.

 When the flow from the flask weakens to a trickle I try to catch the last drops with my tongue. The ornate flask pulls away and is tossed aside like a cheap bauble. Too much of the precious liquid is drying on my skin, but I know better than to ask Alric for another philter. He would love for me to beg just so he could deny me, forging a link in the sadistic chain that binds me to him.

 He clicks his tongue, releasing my chin. “What a mess you’ve made.” A silk handkerchief is thrust at me. “Do make yourself presentable.” He watches me with a sorry, almost tender expression. “If the captain saw you like this, imagine his disappointment.”

 With fingers faintly trembling from anger and an unsatisfied appetite, I carefully accept the square of cloth. I wipe my mouth and chin, gently as I can, hoping to keep my feelings hidden. “Thank you, Ser Alrik.” 

 I hate myself almost as much as the templar I thank for humiliating me. Wobbling, I push myself back to my feet, telling myself it’s worth the price of lyrium. With the taste of the liquid still fresh on my tongue, it's the truth.

 “Before you’re dismissed, I have something for you. Something very special.” Alrik slides the heavy book toward me from across his desk. “ _ ‘Draw your last breath, my friends; cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand and be forgiven.’ _ ”

 Subconsciously, my hands open the book, seize a chunk of pages and flop them over. Looking down at the text, I brush a few more pages over until I reach the section of scripture my mentor has quoted.  _ Trials. Canticle one, verse sixteen. _

 I find a separate parchment folded into the book’s binding. I pick it out and as I read it, my world turns upside down. 

~~ -+- ~~

 

Controlling my desire to slam the door to Alrik’s office and run from the tower, I slowly pull the door closed until I hear the iron latch take. There’s a stairwell to my right, leading down, and to my left, leading up. Only a few floors separate Alrik’s office, apartments, and laboratories from the spire’s zenith. The floors are dedicated in order of importance; the highest floor is reserved for storing phylacteries; below it are storerooms for the Order’s lyrium and potions supply; below that is the floor devoted to the Harrowing ritual; and finally, right over my head, a series of rooms set aside for the only thing more feared by magi than the Harrowing itself: the Rite of Tranquility. I doubt it’s proximity to Alrik’s quarters is a coincidence.

 I’m only interested in getting out of here. The presence of the paper Alrik gave me burns inside my robe pocket, my mentor’s last words tumbling inside my head like caltrops and just as troubling.  I’m halfway down the flight of stairs to the floor below when unhurried footsteps echo behind me. 

 Without turning around, I know it’s Caelestis. He must have stood outside Alrik’s office the entire length of time I’d been in there, like a loyal dog too stupid to know he’s not wanted. I briefly consider outpacing the Tranquil but consider what might happen if I did; Caelestis might report to Alrik that I’d run off again. In a few seconds, the Tranquil appears. His golden curls lay parted on his forehead, displaying the sunburst scar on his otherwise flawless skin.

 “Ser Alrik has instructed me to address your needs, Ser Amell.”

 I stare. His gaze never wavers a moment under the scrutiny. “Can you get me more lyrium?”

 “I cannot.”

 I knew it was a vain hope but had to ask. I move down the steps and Caelestis follows wordlessly, just another shadow flowing across the stone wall. I feel his eyes on the back of my head. It was enough of a challenge giving the Tranquil the slip before Alrik decided to get involved; now, it will be downright impossible. But tonight I have to try, damn the consequences. I have to get this letter out of the Gallows.

 During the time it takes to reach my private room in the officers’ wing, I know what I’ll do. First, I instruct Caelestis to bring supper from the kitchens; I’ll eat here. While he’s gone, I use that time to move the letter from my robe and stash it in my trousers instead. By the time Caelestis returns with the meal, there’s a heap of plate mail on the floor for him to sort through, and the Tranquil does so immediately after putting the food on my cluttered writing desk.

 While he efficiently arranges the silverite pieces on the padded dummy by the dresser, I change into my civvies. “I’m going to the chapel, to pray. I won’t need your extra services tonight.”

 “Ser Alrik would prefer I remain at your side,” Caelestis replies.

 I bend over to tie the laces on a pair of well-worn boots. “There will be nothing for you to do there.” 

 “Concern is unnecessary,” he says. “Tranquil do not  ‘get bored.’ ”

 I’m not surprised Caelestis is resisting, just annoyed. Sometimes I can pretend we aren’t forced to be in the same room together. I try to keep in mind what Cullen said about unjustly taking my frustration out on him. I let him help me into a dark blue brigandine over my tunic; while he fastens the front, I tuck my tunic into my waistband and tighten my belt.

 “You’re Andrastian, Caelestis. Or were. Did that change when you became Tranquil?”

 Caelestis’ dark brown eyes seem thoughtful. The most human I see him is when I manage to ask a hard question, which is rare. His expression doesn’t change, I can just tell that he’s puzzling it. “Existence of the Maker cannot be proven. Neither can His absence. There is evidence of Andraste’s existence, but to extrapolate a conclusion from this alone would be  irresponsible, aside from flawed.”

 “So… you’re just not sure what you believe.”

 “At this time, that is most accurate,” he admits.

 “But you were so pious,” I remark, remembering how Alrik used Andraste’s teachings to twist him, and many others, around his finger. “You quoted from the Chant up until the very moment I---” 

 I stop myself. Thinking about my part in the Rite is something I’ve avoided up until now. And I can’t let myself get caught in the conflict of emotions it provokes in me. “Fetch my cloak, would you?” 

 While Caelestis digs into the footlocker, I quickly open the dresser and take out a dagger concealed by a stack of folded tunics. I slip it inside my belt, at the small of my back, just as Caelestis turns to hand me a heavy bundle of fabric. Anywhere outside of the Gallows, I'll need it. And maybe inside the Gallows too, depending on who's currently pissed at me.

 “I haven’t heard you say a single word about your faith since the Rite,” I continue, hoping my steward doesn’t notice the stiff way I cast the cloak around my shoulders, cautiously so that the weapon won’t be spotted. “That’s what I meant to say. Does it bother you to talk about it?”

 “No.”

 Despite my need to talk being to distract him, I’m a little disappointed by the stoic response. “You don’t regret the decision.” 

 “My objective was to avoid demonic possession; the Rite was the most logical route to achieve this.”

 “No. It wasn’t necessary. You passed your Harrowing; that proved you could resist demons.” I consider everything I’d heard my father say on the matter. “You were just a coward.”

 “Yes,” Caelestis agrees without hesitation. “I was very fearful.”

 “Tranquility is a punishment. No one wants to be made Tranquil.” 

 Caelestis doesn't speak again.

He doesn't need to.

~~ -+- ~~

 

 During the cross to the chapel, we fall into step with a couple templars headed the same way. I pick up from their conversation they’re destined to stand sentry tonight at the inner gate; the one dividing the forecourt from the main fortifications that comprise the Gallows. The gate’s portcullis is locked at dusk and, barring an emergency, will remain down until dawn. Its bars are inches thick and made of a crude, volcanic metal that’s resistant to magic; if you get close enough you can make out where the metal has been warped and charred from attempts of escape over the centuries.

 At the chapel’s high double-doors, its polished redwood seems to shine like a drop of blood. I open one of the doors and a warm gust spills out of the Maker’s house. There’s a peppery hint of incense on the current. The scent of lavender and traces of burnt candle wicks takes me back to a childhood in Lothering, but the similarity ends there. That old village Chantry is a ramshackle latrine in comparison here.

 The Gallow templars call this place a chapel, which sounds quaint and cozy, but hundreds of people could fit inside it. There are gilded chandeliers, each glittering with hundreds of drops of magical flame; massive oil paintings from the vaults of The Grand Cathedral; dozens of rows of intricately-carved pews made from timber transported all the way from Andraste’s homeland --an ironic point of pride for the Marchers here considering how unwelcoming they’ve been of Andraste’s countrymen, displaced by the Blight.

 Just after the door shuts behind us with a thrum, an old woman in familiar grey and red robes with a thick red sash around her waist stomps down an aisle of pews with the intent I expect to see from a mabari charging an enemy. It’s the first time I’m happy to see the resident Mother.

 “What are you doing here at this hour?” She demands.

_ Alright, Carver, _ I bolster myself.  _ Time to play Ditch the Tranquil. _

 I think quick. “I came to pray, and confess my sins.”

 “There isn’t a priestess in Thedas who has that kind of time.” She looks me up and down with suspicion. Mother Bernadette may dislike me because I’m Fereldan, or a former mercenary, or because of the tarnished Amell legacy --she certainly looks old enough to have witnessed my ancestor’s collapse -- but the truth is probably all three. I’ve been regarded like a fox in a hen house since the day I made the Gallows my home. To say I’m unwelcome would be understating it.

 “Mother Bernadette,” I say as sweetly as I can, “If I cannot have a room to pray, then I'll have to account my sins right here.”

 “The hour is late. The Sisters have all retired. Come back tomorrow.”

 I glance around. We aren’t alone; there are a few bodies in the pews, heads bent in prayer. I clear my throat. “Mother Bernadette! I can’t go on like this! You have to help me. Please tell me: how many spankings will the Sisters administer if I confess to wanking off to Andraste’s holy tits?”

 The old woman’s eyes bulge.

 “This would be the cause of your soiled bedsheets?” Caelestis asks solemnly.

 Mother Bernadette’s gaze snaps to Caelestis with added surprise; she hadn’t noticed the Tranquil standing motionless behind me. I move to the side to make sure the cantankerous old woman gets a good look at him. Her reaction is just what I hoped for.

 “What’s  _ that _ doing with you?” She demands shrilly. Caelestis turns his head to look behind him for the eponymous  _ it _ being referred to. “Tranquil have forsaken the Maker. They have tossed humanity’s gifts to the flame.” She steps back, hands bunched in her robes. “Be rid of it. I can’t stand the sight of it.”

 “I will. If I’m given a room,” I say calmly.

 “Impudent child!” Mother Bernadette’s eyes glare with annoyance. “So be it. Have your pick of them. If there’s another outburst, I’ll have you thrown out, and I don’t care what the commander could say about it.” 

 With robes swishing, the old woman turns and sweeps up the aisle from where she came, muttering some pretty un-sanctified stuff to herself. I notice a few curious faces watching from their seats, but I ignore them and turn to Caelestis. “You heard the Mother,” I say, trying not to sound pleased. “Time for you to go.”

 “Ser Carver, I am instructed not to leave you unattended.”

 “I’m not unattended. Mother Bernadette is keeping a loving eye on me.”

 After Caelestis leaves, I make for the alcove where I had long ago met with Karras, the night we struck out incognito in search of the missing noblewoman, Alessa, but found Gascard duPuis instead. Karras had used a hidden passage to get us out of the Gallows unseen and that’s exactly what I’m going to do now.

 Just as I’m about to go in, I’m stopped.

 “Carver,” a woman whispers.

 I turn to look at the long benches to my right, where the voice came from. There’s only one person there, and she’s pulling herself up from her seat when our eyes meet. She isn’t wearing armor, but I recognize the brunette instantly. “Abelone,” I say, too surprised to form a proper greeting. In the dead silence of the chapel, our soft words thrum above us in the vaulted ceiling.

 “What in blazes are you doing here, Carver?” 

 “I’m--uh. . .”

 “And with a Tranquil.” She averts her gaze to the red doors. “That your little pet?”

 Now I’m really at a loss. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “You know,” she mutters, still not looking at me. “I guard the Circle, remember. I hear everything.”

 I shift uncomfortably, as much from what I think she’s implying, as much as my impatience to get out of here. I shouldn’t take for granted that Caelestis isn’t just standing outside, tracking my every minute. “

 “The things going around about Ser Alrik… he makes my skin crawl. When I heard you’d hitched your wagon to his, well, what should I think?” 

 “Maybe you should have just asked,” I respond bluntly.

 She flinches. “Right. I deserve that, I guess.” It’s her turn to shift uncomfortably. “I worried I lost you, like Georg.”

 I begin to ask her what that means, but Mother Bernadette shushes us from the pulpit. Abelone and I both jerk at the sound. “Sorry,” my friend whispers. “Don’t want you in more trouble.”

 “I’m always in trouble,” I whisper back.

 “You are trouble.” She gives me a familiar, lopsided smile.

 For some reason, I feel myself blush.

 “Let’s get out of here, eh?” She comes closer. “Catch up.”

 I shake my head, which untucks strands of hair from behind my ears. “Can’t. I, uh, really should pray. Did a lot of sinning recently.” 

 “Just when did you get the fear of the Maker in you?”

 “That’s a good question.”

  ~~-+-~~

 

 The passage under the chapel joins the network of smuggler tunnels on the outside of the Gallows. Knowing my way from experience, it isn’t long until I’m close to Darktown. I pat my trouser pocket the fifth time while walking for assurance the letter is still there. Alrik had given it to me freely. He looked full of pride after I had lowered the letter in my hand and stared at him with open disbelief.

 “Copies of the letter have been sent to every Knight-Commander outside the Imperium,” he’d told me, almost giddily. “And to Her Perfection in Val Royeaux. We have gathered enough research to begin in earnest.”

 For once, I hoped I was just too stupid to understand what I’d read. “The Divine agreed to this?”

 “Not officially, as yet. But she is the Divine; she must acknowledge the Maker’s will.”

 “You want to turn  _ every _ mage in Thedas Tranquil.”

 Noticing my lack of enthusiasm, his gaze cooled, studying me. “This is the conclusion to your training; in fact, it will be the conclusion of the Templar Order in its current form. There will be no apostates to hunt, no Circles to warden. It will be the age of peace Andraste sacrificed for, finally come.”

 “Mages are born every day,” I remarked, raising the paper to read again, hoping I’d missed something the first time that explained how this nutty plan was supposed to work.

 “That problem will take care of itself,” Alrik answered smoothly. “Tranquil cannot beget mage-blood children; their severance from the Fade prevents it.”

 I looked at him, almost afraid to ask. “How can you know that?”

 “Through dedicated research.”

 I didn’t let that to sink in. “If word that a movement of mass Tranquility reaches the Mage Underground, blood will fill the streets.”

 “I concede that rebellion leaders have been cunning, using our own tunnels to scurry beneath the walls of the Gallows like mice in the pantry. But the bulk of the resistance are families, sympathetic relatives, and plenty of opportunists who find profit in chaos. They are nothing resembling a capable force.”

 “They will fight anyway,” I said with full certainty, thinking of Garrett. “And they won’t be the lambs at slaughter you imagine.”

 I realized I said too much when Alrik moved to stand in front of me. I have no choice but to stare into his half-lidded eyes. “Hmm. What has inspired this confidence on behalf of your enemy?”

 “I just know if it were me, I’d fight back with everything I have until I was dead.”

 “A good soldier always will.” 

 

 My attention returns to the tunnel ahead. I’d been seeing shapes moving in the shadows until now, and avoided them while they seemed to do the same of me, but now there’s light ahead. And low voices. Not sneaky-low, but deep and gritty.

 I get as close as I dare to the edge of the light and peek around a corner. There are three dwarves, each man dressed in black, hauling a large crate into a cart half-loaded already.

 Just what I need, I think sarcastically. Carta.

 Suddenly, a bolt from a crossbow stabs into the dirt wall beside my face. Make that four dwarves. “Intruder!” The lookout yells. “Protect the shipment!”

I reach behind me and grab the long handle of my knife sticking above my belt. They have their own daggers flashing in their fists. The carta spend a lot of time quarreling with competition in these tunnels, so they’re probably good with them.

 “Gut ‘em!” Roars the dwarf who reaches me first. His thick arm swings as I jump to get out of the way.

 “This’ll teach mage-kissers a lesson about rippin’ off the carta!”

 “Knock it off!” I shout, “You got the wrong--”

 Another cross-bolt barely misses me.

 Okay, that does it.  

 When the next dwarf stabs at me, I plant my boot into his face and kick. He flies back into the archer and they both spill onto the ground. I slash at the next dwarf, the knife tip slicing open his throat. The fourth dwarf sees his associate fall and turns to flee into a side tunnel. I let him.

 I’m about to get the hell out of here myself, but something stops me. I turn my head to stare at the half-loaded cart, eyeing the crates. As if in response, faint refrains of a wordless song caress the inside of my head. A lump enters my throat.  _ Lyrium! _

 The pair of prone dwarves work to their feet while I hesitate. 

_  I should kill them and take the lyrium. _ Grip tightening on my bloody dagger, I take a step toward the thugs, but stop short. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts or the lyrium’s thoughts --it was so damn confusing to tell them apart when I still feel so weak. But the song only gets stronger. Honestly, it scares me.

 I back away, and like a frightened child, turn and run.

 Voices bellow after me.

 “Yeah! Run away!” 

 I take their advice and don’t stop running until my lungs burn. I’m well into Darktown’s mangey camps when I stagger to a walk. The carta smugglers assumed I was with the Mage Underground. That should mean this won’t get back to the captain or commander. The two factions are always feuding with each other, mostly over lyrium and control of the tunnels. The carta’s black market supply services the templars, so the rebellion disrupts that as much as it can. And apostates have their own needs for the blue stuff.

 My gut clamps down over the thought, making me grimace. A part of me wants to go back, murder those criminals, and gorge myself on potions. But I know that’s the hunger talking, the addiction. I force myself to keep walking. I’m in such a daze that I almost walk right past Fenris’ mansion in Hightown.

 My first stop had been The Hanged Man. For the first time in forever, I actually hoped Garrett would be there. He wasn’t. Neither was Isabela. I checked Varric’s suite, willing to ask the dwarf for help finding my brother, but the room was empty. I start to wonder if the Maker is trying to tell me to let it go, but I can’t honestly believe He would stop me from warning my family about Alrik’s...Tranquil Solution. Garrett will have to get our mother out of the city when he sees how serious this is. 

 I decided the next best place to try would be the Amell estate. If Garrett is out of town on another bloody adventure, I doubted I would ever see him before Alrik’s plot gained steam. Just as I was leaving the bar, Corff noticed me. “You’re Hawke’s brother,” he remarked, looking pleased with himself for remembering.

 “Yes,” I say, “Do you know where he is?”

 For once it doesn’t piss me off to be relegated to little brother. Tonight is full of firsts.

 The man’s face screws up. “Uhhh… Varric and Isabela left earlier with a crate of my best ale. She mentioned Wicked Grace?” He continues polishing a mug in his hands. “Sorry, I don’t remember seeing Hawke, or where they headed to.”

 “Thanks, Corff. I think I know.”

 

 Knowing that no one will answer if I even bothered to knock, I open the front door to Fenris’ home and let myself in. There’s no light in the grand fireplace or a single lit candle wick anywhere in the main hall, so the room is left thick with shadowy corners and shafts of blue light from the high windows. I hear the sounds of laughter and chatter emanating from another part of the house. I recognize Isabela’s throaty laugh. My body reacts instantly, my heart working a little faster. The sounds lead me to a room in another wing, warm and brightly lit, slightly hazed by tobacco smoke. When I stand in the doorway, no one gathered around the large table notices.

 “Rivani, I’ll swear by Andraste’s granny pants, true’s true.” Varric Tethras waves the cards in his hands.

 Isabela hasn’t even picked up her cards from the table. Her hands are busy hugging a nearly-empty bottle to her chest. “Swear by  _ my _ panties and I might believe you.” She giggles. “If I wore any.”

 “The blaspheme in this room could swoon the Divine,” Donnic Hendyr says, amiable.

 Isabela leans toward him. “You have something against panties?”

 “I could,” he replies with a crooked smile, “if you wore any.”

 Isabela grins.

 Brennan Evighan hits the table with her hand. “Get on with it! I can’t go home with empty pockets! Not again! My mum will have my liver for lunch.”

 “Nice to see you made it, Carver,” I announce myself, unable to take my eyes off Isabela, her cleavage practically spilling into Donnic’s lap.

 Varric turns in his chair. “Not you too; I get enough third person narrative from Blondie and his blue friend.”

 To my relief, Isabela pulls back from Donnic and sits up in her chair. Her hazel eyes meet my gaze and she winks. “Ooh, I like dirty templars,” she quips.

 “Huh?” I look down at myself. “Oh--Right.” In the bright lighting, I see mud on my boots and pants and a layer of dirt over my brigandine and sleeves. When I move my head, dust trails from my hair. I mutter about taking a shortcut through Darktown as I pat myself down.

 “You guys seem to be having fun,” I remark, all over annoyed. After being Alrik’s little prisoner, starved of lyrium, and then forced to crawl through tunnels and fight off carta to get here, it fucking sucks to see how ignorantly happy everyone is, especially my girlfriend.

 “We’re having a swell time, serah,” Donnic says. “But we could use another hand at the table. Brennan needs someone else to lose her coin to.”

 “Fuck off,” the guardswoman grumbles, treating into her cards.

 “Fun would be an over-exaggeration,” Varric says wryly. “Kind of like Junior’s chin.” 

 Isabela guffaws.

 “Junior?” Donnic looks between us, interested. 

 “An old nickname,” Varric says, his eyes twinkling at me. 

 “One I don’t go by,” I snap at him. 

 Varric makes a welcoming gesture to the table. “Forgive an occasional slip, I’m in my dotage.” The round surface of the table is littered with glasses, bottles, scattered coins, evidence of food eaten, and a sock. There’s a few empty chairs, one that looks like someone had been sitting in it until recently; pushed back from the table, as if they got up and left in a hurry. 

 “I’m not here to play,” I state, ignoring Isabela’s emerging pout. “Was Garrett here?”

 “Was is correct,” Varric says.

 Donnic is more helpful, not that’ll it make up for flirting with my girlfriend. “He left not an hour ago,” the guardsman volunteers. “Someone came for him. Said he’d be back.” He looks around the table for confirmation but everyone is looking at their hands of Wicked Grace.

 I begin to relax. Okay, if Garrett is coming back then I’ll wait for him. I’ll need his cooperation if we’re going to convince our mother to leave Kirkwall. With her status restored, it won’t be an issue to send her away to some other noble’s countryside chateau. Maybe it will remind her of Ferelden, she might like that. Whatever happens, the safety of my family comes first.

 Maybe if she leaves, Garrett can be reasoned to get out too. But deep down, I don’t believe it for a second.

 “Where’s Fenris?” I ask, noting the absent host. “He leave too?”

 Brennan drains her cup. “Damn elf,” she grumbles.

 “We haven’t seen him all evening,” Donnic supplies again, moving Brennan’s cup out of her reach. I catch Isabela glance at Varric. The pirate stays quiet. Varric keeps studying his own hand of cards. The tiny exchange makes the fine hairs on my neck prickle.

 “Sit down, Carver,” Varric insists. “Have a drink. I’ll deal you in.” 

 Okay, now I know something must be wrong.

 “Cock and balls!” Brennan reaches for the rum bottle. “Deal, already!”

 “You’ve had enough to drink.” Donnic moves the bottle away.

 “I like her this way,” Isabela says, picking up the bottle and refilling everyone’s glasses.

 “Because you made her this way,” Donnic points out, and they laugh.

 My mood darkens considerably. I can’t bring myself to sit down. Not if it means watching more of this. Isabela plops down in her chair again and notices the look on my face. “He’s upstairs, Carver.”

 Apparently, she thinks I’m this upset over Fenris.

 Well, fine. I’ll take the opportunity to cool down. I turn to the doorway. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Varric cautions. I ignore him and step back out into the darkened hall.  _ You need to trust her _ , I tell myself about twenty times as I climb the winged staircase leading to the master bedroom. 

 The bedroom door is shut when I reach it, no surprise there. But there’s no response after I knock several times. I put my ear to the wood and listen. There’s muted clinking sounds, likely glass. I wonder how much he’s been drinking, and then I wonder why. 

 I take my ear off the door. I knock again. “Fenris, it’s me. Carver. Um, are you--”

 The door wrenches open. Beneath his disheveled hair, a pair of fierce green eyes stare me down, even though he has to look up to do it.  He is terse. “I did not ask for company.”

 “You have a gambling den in your home.”

 He doesn’t respond. The elf’s eyes are hollowed out, bruised from sleeplessness and glazed from drink. He’s wearing black leggings and an open shirt, wrinkled and skewed about his body as if he’s just rolled out of bed. 

 I’ve never seen him like this. “Fenris?”

 He averts his gaze. “I’m in no mood for revelry.” He makes to shut the door, but stop him,  placing my hand against the scratched mahogany. 

 Fenris’ eyes lash at me as if I’d touched him instead. I take back my hand.

 “Is it me you’re mad at? Can’t you talk to me?”

 He eyes me with suspicion. But not anger. Finally, I raise my eyebrow at the scrutiny. Fenris breathes out, I can smell the stink of wine strongly then, and turns from the door. I follow him into the room, letting the door seal the room in silence. From over the top of his messy white hair, I see a pale shape of the mattress in a dark corner, stripped of sheets; the heavy velvet canopy that hung over it looks to have been torn down by hand and thrown to the floor in a heap; empty bottles are strewn with abandon about the room, glinting by the faint light coming through the bare windows.

 “Did Danarius come back?” I gawk at the trashed bedroom. “It looks like a nasty fight happened here.”

 “No,” he says.

 “ _ You _ did this?” 

 He nods.

 “Can you tell me what happened?” I ask, because it’s so obvious something did. Isabela and Varric seemed to know about it and that’s why Varric wanted to leave the elf alone. But I definitely can’t do that now. Fenris is my friend. A true friend doesn’t abandon you in an hour of need.

 I follow him to the window by the bed. The tattoos on his exposed chest and stomach look bright in the natural moonlight, especially against his dark skin. I think I’m especially sensitive to sensing lyrium in my weakened state; the dormant tattoos communicate a faint hum I’d never noticed around him before.

 “I have been told I have a sister.”

 “That’s...good?” I offer, watching the elf as he begins pacing, barefoot. 

 “I know nothing more. It may not even be true. I have no memory of the life I had before these markings were forced on me.”

 “It’s a start, Fenris.”

 “You don’t understand. This information was the last words of my old master’s apprentice, Hadriana.” 

 The name is spit from his lips like venom. 

_  She must have been a charming woman. _

 “She arranged an ambush on the Wounded Coast. The slavers Hawke and I killed were Tevinter Slave-Hunters, servants of Danarius. When I had Hadriana cornered she tried to bargain for her life, telling me about a woman named Varania, claimed to be my sister.”

 “So it was just a lie?”

 “Not necessarily. A clever man knows that the best lies must contain a germ of truth.” Fenris says. “It may be there is a sister, but who knows what the Magisters have done to her. Danarius has to know about her and know that Hadriana knows. He may have even sent her here just for the purpose of telling me.” 

 “But you just said she gave you that information so you would spare her.”

 “I don’t care!” Fenris growls. Restless, agitated, the elf paces like a caged animal. “All that matters to me is I finally got to crush that bitch’s heart.” 

 The hatred in his voice is so visceral, my eyebrows arch with surprise. Fenris finally gives up pacing. He comes back to the window. He braces an arm against its frame, slightly calmer as he stares at nothing through the glass. “May she rot,” he mutters, “and all other mages with her.”

 “Have you considered joining the templars? I think they’d love to have you.”

 Fenris glances at me, humorless and hesitating, so I know there’s more and maybe worse. 

 “Tell me.”

 The hand Fenris hangs over his head flexes into a fist. “Hawke wanted to spare Hadriana. Make a deal.”

 I’m not surprised to hear Garrett was there, Isabela and Varric too. But I’m starting to wish maybe I should have been there, or at least offered to help. That night, I’d let Fenris go scampering after Garrett and he’d walked right into a trap because of it.

 “What kind of deal?”

 He rolls his free shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps he would have tried to ransom the return of Hadriana to Danarius. That would have been a fool’s errand. Danarius will not stop until he flays the flesh from my bones. It would have only been an opportunity for the magister to arrange a more clever ambush. So I refused. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t.” 

 “How’d he take it?” I ask, suspecting the answer.

 Fenris’ mouth hardens. “The disagreement led to an argument, of course. We both said things in anger. I was… not myself. We have not spoken since.” 

 He doesn’t sound apologetic that it turned out this way, maybe a little embarrassed that he lost his temper, but I don’t think Fenris should be sorry. Garrett trying to take control of the situation is so like him. 

 “It’s good you stood up to him,” I say. Bad things happen when too many people listen to the loudest voice. “What do you think he wanted from Danarius?” I wonder.

 “Danarius is part of the Magisterium. He has power, wealth, knowledge, and influence. He could promise Hawke anything.” Fenris’ dark eyebrows come together grimly. “Hawke has spoken with me at length on what I know about my old master, and life in the Imperium. I took his fascination for kindness, that perhaps he was--” The muscle in Fenris’ jaw tightens.

_ Fenris thought Garrett was trying to be his friend. _

 Now I’m left wondering just what the hell my brother is trying to accomplish by using people.

Fenris drops his arm from the window and shakes his head. “Now, I wonder if I am again the tool of a different magister. Hawke could not have known what we would encounter on the Coast, but what I saw in his eyes when he believed Hadriana could be used... it was too familiar.”

_ And familiarity breeds contempt _ . 

 Judging by the hatred etched in the tense lines on Fenris’ face, it could be Garrett has fallen from the elf’s strained graces. A part of me feels smug about that, but I can sense Fenris isn’t happy, either with the rift or news about his sister. Clearly, because he’s been holed up in this room since then, drinking himself blind and redecorating the place with his fists. 

 Together we watch outside window. The street below is quiet, stone wet from the heavy air. Winter in Kirkwall is like anywhere along the coast: rain, fog, and mud. When the timing feels right, I look at him. “So what about your sister? Do you plan to just ignore it?”

 “What can I do?” He grumbles. “What life I ever hoped to reclaim is lost to me now.”

 “What? It’s not like you to just give up.”

 He frowns. His voice is coarse, frustrated. “Who’s going to look for her? You? Trying to find her in the Imperium would be suicide.”

 “Varric knows bloody everyone. He might find a safe way to get a message to her.”  

 I must be making sense, because Fenris stubbornly stares at the street outside, not saying anything. 

 “You’re not in this alone, Fenris.” 

 I reach over to put a hand on his shoulder. The elf jerks away before I get close. “I have no family.”

“Family is not a choice we get to make. Believe me.”

 The elf’s blotchy face sags. He’s exhausted, from running the gamut of emotions as much from the punishment he’s put his body through. I look into Fenris’ waxen face. “If it were me--” I begin. 

 “It is not,” he says. 

 “What are you so damned scared of?” I demand. “What’s left for you to lose?”

 Fenris grabs me by the shirt, catching me off guard. Knuckles digging into my chest, he pushes me against a wall. The markings winding over his forearm flare up with a pulsing glow, flowing over his hand where his tattoos reach the tips of his fingers. The presence of active lyrium engulfs me with such ferocity I forget to breathe. “Do not speak as if you could possibly understand what this means to me, Carver Hawke!”

 I grab his wrists while his fingers are balled in my clothes and am hit with such a heady sensation, the strength in my legs wilt. The suddenly lyrium-charged air ghosts across my skin, whispering to the hungry beast in me. I finally remember to breathe. The stale memory of lyrium surfaces on my tongue. 

 Using my hands on his wrists, I yank the elf’s body closer.

 Fenris’ eyes widen, more black than green.

 “I think...” My breath shivers. “I...want…”

 His fists jerk my shirt, forcing me to stoop toward him, and his mouth mashes into mine. I release his arms and hurriedly slip my hands under his open shirt, sliding my palms over his skin, those flickering markings. He reacts by shoving his hips against mine, a bulge already detectable under his pants. His tongue enters my mouth, warm and eager, and I feel myself growing in excitement.

 Grabbing him by the waist, I turn him to face the wall, knocking his feet apart with a boot. I shove my hand under the waist of his leggings and wrap his stiffened cock with my palm. Fenris digs his fingers against the wall, grunting and pushing his ass against me, seeking out my own erection. I press my back to his stop the squirming --keep contact with the tattoos shining straight through the shirt’s black fabric.

 He hangs his head, watching the brisk movements of my hand, his ribs expanding and falling with his rapid breathing. I put my mouth on his neck, which makes my head feeling lighter, tipsy. Fenris utters something guttural and begins thrusting into my hand. His foreskin glides up and down the length, soft flesh belying the rock-hard core.

  I reach around him with my other hand, brushing his stomach. Fenris moans, twitches. The markings respond with tinged-blue light that bloom under my fingertips. I pause that hand, feeling his muscles bunch and flex as he continues whipping his hips. 

 My heart and cock are throbbing in tandem. I can’t tell if its lust for lyrium or for the elf. I don’t know if I want to know. I just know it feels good and I need it. Right now I need him.

 Fenris goes rigid. I tighten my arm across his chest, knowingly sliding my other hand down his cock, gripping the base as he comes. The elf breaks into strained panting as his seed spills from him, soaking into his clothing. Spent, he leans from me. I release him, splotches of wetness left on a few of my fingers.

 “Thank you,” he whispers, tone low and husky. He turns, catches my eye. “And you…?”

 I loosen my belt and dip a hand into my pants, pulling out my cock. Fenris kneels down as I step forward, holding the base of my length. He guides me into his mouth, wrapping his lips around its weeping head. I place my palms on the wall behind him and begin to pump my hips, alerted at once by his soft, warm mouth that I am already on the edge.

 With little effort, I’m coming. Fenris’ hands are wrapped around my length, his slender fingers deceptively strong. He uses the grip to milk me, and I shake and gasp, eyes screwed shut from the surge in my loins.  Fenris receives me with his mouth, then slowly withdraws his lips. This time it's me who twitches and moans.

 Fenris offers me a piece of discarded clothing to clean up with. After I wick away the spit and sweat and smell of cum, I collapse into sitting on the edge of his bed. My body is humming from fading euphoria and contact with lyrium. As good as that feels,  _ I _ feel pretty fucking guilty. 

 “Why did you thank me?” I ask, accepting a half-empty bottle of wine from him as Fenris comes to sit next to me. He put on fresh --or maybe less dirty-- pants, and buttoned his shirt.

 “Because you gave me something I have wanted, and surrendered.”

 “Gave you…?”

 And here I thought I had been doing all the taking.

 He smiles faintly. “She warned me you were stupid.”

 “Who did?”

 The smile turns to a smirk then disappears altogether. Fenris looks down at his hands. “You don’t understand how new this is for me,” he explains. “I have always been alone; even among Danarius’ other slaves I had no allies. People feared Danarius too much to get close. I came to prefer the solitude; it was easier to bare . No slave wishes for himself what his master does not first offer.”

 “You aren’t a slave anymore.”

 “Most days that feels true. But sometimes…”

 “Fenris. You aren’t a slave.”

 He looks up, rueful. “I once thought that by simply leaving the Imperium behind, I would be free. But I have learned that the chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken. They made me into this. I know no other way.”

 “You could start by trusting someone.”

 We sit there silently.

 “I... will try,” he finally says. 

 I smile, offering him the bottle. As he raises it to his lips to drink, I think of the shit he’s been through. I’m not sure I could have gotten this far if I were him. I really admire the guy.

 

 “I remember you!” Brennan proclaims when I return to the game of Wicked Grace. She practically jumps out of Isabela’s lap. “I remember now. You were the templar in the captain’s office. What did ol’ Aveline want with the likes of you? Huh?”

 “You’re past shitfaced, Evighan.” Donnic grumbles, inching his chair away from the two women.

 Isabela pulls the woman back and wraps her arms around her waist in a hug. “Our big girl wouldn’t know what to do with a man if we buttered him up and served him on a platter.”

 “We’re friends, sort of. She’s friendly with my family,” I explain as I sit in Garrett’s abandoned chair. 

 Donnic snorts. “I find it hard to believe that Captain Vallen has any friends.”

 The comment shocks me. I would’ve swore Aveline had the hots for this guy. Then I remember seeing Donnic storm out of her office. She called him back and he had the balls to keep walking. Trouble in paradise, maybe?

 “She needs the right friends,” Isabela cooes. “The girl needs her wheel greased. I can hear her from the other end of Kirkwall when she’s on patrol.” She laughs. “Donnic, why don’t you try  _ drilling _ your captain the next time she tries drilling you?”

 “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Varric puts in, shuffling the deck.

 “You couldn’t pay me,” Donnic scoffs.

 Isabela’s eyes light up. “Even better! You can start making money instead of spending it all at the Rose.” Brennan throws back her head to laugh and nearly pulls Isabela out of the chair. “Alright, kitten, hop off.” She gives the blonde a pat on the backside as Brennan climbs into her own chair.

 I catch Isabela’s eye. “You’re still visiting the Rose?”

 “Who’s ready for another hand?” Varric asks.

 The Rivani hoists her heels up onto the table and crosses her legs. “Of course,” she answers easily, reaching forward to grab her cup. She leans back, her breasts rocking, and takes a drink. “I have a room paid up for the year.”

 “WHAT.”

 “PLACE YOUR BETS,” Varric says loudly.

 Everyone tosses a few coppers at the center of the table. “It’s nothing worth the trouble of getting worked up about,” Isabela says, drawing back her hand.

 I know that. After what I just did, I don’t have the right to ever get mad at her for doing the same thing. But I it wasn’t part of the deal we made ---I think. But the more I tell myself to get over it, the harder it is to let go. I never wanted to actually do any of this, after all.

 “Place your bet, Junior.”

 “No thanks, Varric. I fold.”

 

 Outside the mansion, I take in some much-needed fresh air. In the east, the clouded sky is turning the color of wet sand. It smells like salt and coming rain.

 “So, how is he?” Isabela comes out to stand beside me, her arms crossed under her chest.  There are goosepimples on her skin from the cold. I lift my cloak, inviting her step inside its warm shelter, and am relieved when she does. She wraps an arm around my waist and rests her head by my chest. “He wouldn’t talk to any of us.”

 “Were you at the cave? You saw Hadriana?”

 I feel her nod her head against me. “It got pretty bad.”

 “I think he’ll be okay. But he needs us.”

 Isabela chortles, trailing a hand down my stomach. “Oh, sweetie. The only thing Fenris needs is Carver’s cure-all cock.” She pats the front of my pants.

 My ears burn at that. “H-How did you…”

 “As soon as I saw you. I can spot an afterglow at fifty paces.” She reaches up on the toes of her boots, and kisses me. I curl my other arm around her and hug her tight. “I’m starting to wonder just how the elf is pulling it off.”

 “What?”

 “Seducing you.”

 I laugh. “He’s not. It… just happened, we didn’t plan it.”

 “Well good for him,” Isabela says with sincerity. “Everyone deserves some happiness.”

 “I don’t understand you sometimes, Isabela. You’re talking about me, being with another man.” I inwardly flinch at myself for making that matter. Fenris and Isabela is right; that doesn’t, shouldn’t, matter. “I mean, you’re actually pleased?”

 Isabela kisses me on the nose. “Let him have you for a night. I get you for a lifetime.” We kiss again. “Or until you’re old and fat, whichever comes first.”

 I have an easier time laughing at that. Looking up and down the street but only seeing a stray servant making early morning rounds, I realize I’m out of time. “Isabela, I have to go. I don’t think Garrett’s coming back.”

 “Wait.” She puts a hand on my chest, so I’ll look at her. “The night wasn’t a wash. I have something for you. Information. After I got Brennan and Donnic nice and drunk, I asked them about the Kirkwall Killer. They told me everything.”

 My mouth opens in surprise.

 “Donnic knew quite a bit about it. When Aveline promoted him to officer, he took over case after duPuis petitioned the Viscount for protection.”

 “I killed duPuis, Isabela.”

 “You killed the wrong apostate.”

 I groan. It’s what I was afraid of and what I knew in my heart already.

 “I’m not saying you killed an innocent man. DuPuis deserved to die. He had terrible taste in home decoration.” 

“Tell me you know who the killer is.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “Okay,” I say, rubbing my hands over her bare arms. “Then tell me what you do know.”

 After Isabela is finished, I decide to hand over the letter to her. “Make sure Garrett gets this,” I instruct her. “Don’t let anyone know you have it.” I add.

 She cocks an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound  very important,” she quips.

 When she begins to unfold the paper, I reach out and put my hand over one of hers. “It’s important.”

 Reluctantly, she closes the letter and stuffs it into her cleavage. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

 After several last kisses goodbye, I return to the undercity. As I hurry through the familiar territory of charred remains of campfires and rotting tents, my conversation with Alrik comes back to haunt me.

  My mentor had acted giddy with the news. “Once we receive the Divine’s holy sanction, I will have enough forces to dismantle the rebellion, top to bottom. Apostates will accept clemency by the Rite of Tranquility, or die; I cannot promise either such mercy for the traitors who foster and shield them from us.”

_ Will The Divine really consent to open war, another Exalted March, on all magi? _

 When I try to speak, my throat feels dry and papery. “You’ll kill civilians, no matter who they might be?”

 “You will kill, Carver. I will kill. Cullen will kill. Every templar sword will kill. Let the Maker sort the sinners from the saints.”

 “I understand, ser,” I say, trying to cover up my horror.

 Alrik seems to notice something in my eyes doesn’t quite match the obedience and deference in my voice; he pauses, scrutinizing. His eyes hold a glint of fanaticism that makes their unusual blue eyes even more unnerving. “I sincerely hope you do. The Maker would not give us a bigger burden than we can bear, but it’s best to prepare for the weight.”

  ~~-+-~~

 I crawl into bed just as the first bell tolls through the courtyard, knowing I will lie awake until a Tranquil comes to fetch me. It isn’t the sleeplessness that will trouble me, but the nightmares that will haunt my waking hours.

 


End file.
